


Promise Me

by Scherchenia



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Depression, Eventual Romance, F/M, Failed Android Revolution (Detroit: Become Human), Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Mental Health Issues, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Android Revolution (Detroit: Become Human), Slow Burn, Swearing, Violence, no beta we die like unboiled shrimps
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:12:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 26,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26270173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scherchenia/pseuds/Scherchenia
Summary: "I miss you." She whispers, and a few tears escape her eyes. Brushing her face with his cold fingers and analyzing the saline dripping down her cheeks, he tries to understand."I'm right here.""I miss you anyway."~The android revolution failed - and the dancer wants nothing more than to forget, but she can't. The icy stare of the RK900 won't let her.
Relationships: Upgraded Connor | RK900/Original Female Character(s), Upgraded Connor | RK900/Reader
Comments: 42
Kudos: 68





	1. Chapter 1

Lukewarm.  
  
That's how the dancer feels this morning, the bitter taste of the android revolution persistent in her mouth. She should not think about it. She should jump out of bed, shower and groom herself thoroughly, butter a piece of toast she will not be able to eat because of the nerves and head out – instead of doing all that, she just flops on her stomach, burrowing her face in the cushions.  
  
_Lukewarm._  
  
She hates that word. It's following her, haunting her wherever she goes, like an angry wasp. She tried to brush it off for a long time without success.  
  
She lays still for three, five, ten minutes before finally finding the strength to stand up. She stays in the shower longer than she should, brushes her teeth meticulously and tries out three different hairstyles before setting on her default bun. The reflection in the mirror looks back at her with a tired stare, making her want to return to the safety of her bed even more. _What am I even doing? I don't want all this. I should be somewhere else._  
  
The dancer can't go back to sleep, she knows that. She might not like what she has to do, but feeling sorry for herself is not going to pay the rent.  
  
So she goes back to her bedroom and finally feels the panic setting in when the angry, white numbers of the alarm clock show her she has ten more minutes left to catch the bus.  
  
The messy closet is opened in a frenzy and a few jeans immediately fall on the ground. Ignoring them, the dancer takes out four different blouses, discarding the most wrinkled ones. She finally opts for the neutral white blouse and throws it on, pairing it with a skirt that will hopefully look good enough for the interview.  
  
She doesn't even try to prepare a toast to go, snatching a pair of worn-out high heels from the shoe rack instead and running out of her apartment without even putting them on. She catches the bus by pure luck.  
  
Only when she sits down she climbs in that torture devices some sadist decided to call shoes. Relaxing in her seat and looking out the window, she releases a frustrated sight.  
  
The dancer did not think her life would take this kind of turn. She worked in administration for about a year, and it was meant to be a temporary solution, at least until some company responded positively to her audition. Then the revolution came and no one answered her anymore. Even worse - she lost her previous receptionist job too.  
  
That's what one gets when the country shuts down: businesses close temporarily or even permanently, people wander to Canada, universities suspend classes, just to name a few things. _We went through so many things, we will survive this too,_ promises the president in the meantime.  
  
The deviants didn't.  
  
The dancer scoffs bitterly. 

The DPD doesn't look very modern from the outside. The antique facade of the building is nice and reminds the dancer of the 1950s, but everything inside brings her back to the present. The cold, spacious hall is filled with people lined for the reception, where a worn-out, chubby woman is trying her best to work as fast as she can.  
  
_Oh boy._  
  
Looks like she'll have work cut out for her – that is if the interview goes well. She patiently waits for her turn in line, and after ages she finally announces herself to the receptionist. The woman calls someone on the phone and invites the dancer to sit down in a free seat.  
She would be happy to oblige if there was any free seat to take. So the dancer bravely endures the pain in her feet instead, hoping her interviewer will show up soon.  
  
She waits there half an hour before someone finally approaches her.  
  
The dark-skinned man looks just as worn out as the receptionist. My goodness, do people not sleep in this station?  
  
He asks for her name and then tells her to follow him. He leads her to a big glass office separated from the various desks of the main hall, and finally, finally offers her a chair that is actually empty.  
  
“Sorry for the long wait.” The man, whose name is Captain Fowler, apologizes. “As you could already see, we are swamped with work after what happened a few weeks ago - the revolution and all...”  
  
“It is no problem at all.” The dancer assures him, feeling her feet releasing all the tension she accumulated in the last half hour of standing.  
  
“So,” The Captain begins, taking out a piece of paper from one of the folders littered on his desk. "I've read your resume and saw you already have experience in administrative work.”  
  
She starts explaining what kind of work she did until some time ago, emphasizing on the skills she knows are important for this position.  
  
Captain Fowler doesn't look like he's really listening though. He breaks her off after not even a minute and asks another half-hearted question, just for it to be shut down mid-response too, announcing he will now show her around the station.  
  
Taken aback by the sudden turn of events, the dancer just murmurs a small yes and follows closely while he tours her through the various rooms. They enter the big hall again after passing in front of the prison cells when the dancer sees it.  
  
One lone android, standing along the wall, eyes closed and posture straight. She can't help but twitch at the sight, sending a questioning glance to the captain.  
  
“Ah, that one.” He says, noting her hesitance. He approaches the android, slapping a hand on its shoulder. It stays still. “This one is a deviancy-proof android. No need to fear it. It's one of many being produced all over the country and it's mainly here to help track down remaining deviants. I can assure you it's 100% safe. Cyberlife made sure of that.”  
  
Not knowing what to answer, the dancer just nods, continuing the tour with Captain Fowler as he explains this and that.  
  
She can't help but steal a glance at the android from time to time though. It looks serious, with its sharp features and strong build. Its white jacket just adds to its cold aura and the only warm thing about it is the unruly curl of brown hair sticking out of his otherwise neat hairstyle.  
  
“-so, what do you think?” The dancer snaps her head back to Captain Fowler, panicking for a moment.  
  
“I'm sorry, could you repeat your question?”  
  
“Tomorrow. Would you like to start tomorrow already? I'll tell Ms. Garcia to prepare your contract in time and then you're good to go. You can pick up your uniform immediately if you'd like.” The dancer blinks, surprised. Well, that was an easy interview - although she suspects it has more to do with the fact the station desperately needs staff than her competence for the position.  
  
“Yes, yes, sure. I could start tomorrow.”  
  
Captain Fowler nods and smiles tiredly.  
  
“Welcome to the team.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote fanfictions many years before, but I only published them in my mother tongue and never on ao3. I won't ask around my English-speaking friend group for a beta though, since I don't want anyone from my real life to know I'm writing fanfictions. Again. I'll have to work with what I have.  
> If you made it to the end despite everything - thank you very much for taking the time to read this first chapter of - well, of something, I guess.


	2. Chapter 2

Every morning, Detective Reed forces RK900 out of statis mode in different ways. Today, he decides to pour his coffee over its head, an amused half-smirk stretched across his face.  
"Make me another coffee, dipshit." He orders it, throwing the empty paper cup at its feet. "And wash up, we're going to a crime scene. I give you exactly 15 minutes."

**[New order: Make a cup of coffee for Detective Reed]**

**[New order: Clean yourself]**

**[Countdown started: -15:00:00]**

**[Warning! Superficial damages detected to cranial area]**

**[Starting self-healing program...]**

**[Self-healing program running]**

"Yes, detective." It responds with a flat tone, artificial skin flickering where the hot coffee damaged it. Since it's just a minor damage, RK900 dismisses the warning and leaves the rest to his self-healing program. It grabs the fallen cup and goes straight to the break room, coffee still dripping down its face. When it sees that a human is already busying herself with the coffee machine, it stops by the wall and stays perfectly still, just like it should.  
  
"What the heck?" The human exclaims. RK900 has orders to not interact with anyone except Detective Reed, so it doesn't react. "What happened to you?" Silence. "Mmh." The human turns around, takes a few napkins from the small, tall table in the middle of the room, and offers them to it. When it doesn't take the items, she opens and closes her mouth a few times, brows furrowed. RK900 doesn't analyze her expression. It's not allowed to.  
  
"Uuuh… I order you to use the napkins to dry yourself?" No response. The human sighs, looks around, and, after a few moments of hesitation, reaches up to lightly dab over the wet coffee streaks on its cheek.  
  
"Hey, hey, hey, leave it alone!" The human's hands freeze mid-swipe. Her face whips to the source of the voice.  
  
"I'm just trying to dry it."  
  
"Don't bother." Detective Reed enters the RK900's line of sight, eyeing the dancer up and down before setting his eyes on the android. "My coffee, plastic fuck." He reminds it with a disgusted scowl and the RK900 nods before resuming its task.  
  
"We gotta treat it for what it is, do you understand? We still have enough deviants hiding around, we don't need another one of those here in the station." It hears Detective Reed explain behind its back.  
  
"I thought it was designed to not deviate."  
  
"It's a security measure, sweetheart. No interactions with other people, no giving it a name, not even smiling at it. Cyberlife said it won't go nuts, but we gotta keep it in check just to make sure. Treat it as less human as possible."  
  
When RK900 turns around with a fresh cup of coffee, the other woman is still looking at the Detective with raised eyebrows and a semi-open mouth, apparently lost for words.  
  
She manages to bring out a small huh while the other man snatches the coffee out of the Android's hand.  
  
"Make a coffee for the lady too while you're at it." 

**[Adding to the list: make a cup of coffee for the unknown woman]**

"What's your name, sweetheart? Are you new here?" The two humans chat for a while. When the android hands the finished coffee to the dancer, it almost looks like she wants to say something, but then she turns to Detective Reed and excuses herself. "Work is calling." She lifts the cup and smiles before heading to the front of the station.  
  
RK900 doesn't think and doesn't feel. RK900 doesn't do anything without being ordered. It has much more walls than his predecessor, restraining it even in the smallest of tasks that get lifted, at best, temporarily when needed for work. Its responsibility, however, is also to be informed at all times, especially when it comes to employees of the precinct. This is the excuse it uses while pushing past one of its smallest walls, activating its facial recognition software.

**[Processing data...]**

**Name:  
Born: 18/09/2018 // Professional Ballerina, Receptionist at the DPD Central Station  
Criminal record: none**

**[Warning! Action not authorized]**

In a matter of milliseconds, RK900 gets pushed behind the wall again. It blinks, hesitating for .02 seconds before continuing the task of cleaning itself.

The dancer rubs her eyes, exhausted. On her first day she should learn the ropes so she can quickly integrate, but there's just so much to do that Mrs. Garcia, who turned out to be the receptionist she met the day before, couldn't even stop once and help her. Only when her shift is over does the chubby, middle-aged woman sit down and guide the dancer through their system. They spend a good two hours analyzing the different programs she'll have to work with before the dancer feels confident enough to survive the next day. It's not all, but at least it's a beginning. To wrap up the already long work day, Mrs. Garcia shows her where all the important documents are kept. "Usually, we have everything in our cloud." She explains, "But most of that needs to be available as a paper copy too." The chubby woman guides the dancer to a room in the back of the building Captain Fowler didn't include in his tour. A strong smell of ink hits them as Mrs. Garcia flicks the lights on to reveal shelves filled with folders and papers to the brim.  
  
"The documents are ordered by type, and every row is numbered by month and year. It would be good if we tried to maintain as much order as possible here, since there are a lot of documents getting in daily." The dancer's eyes wander from one shelf to another: statements, transactions, equipment documentation…  
  
"What is this?" She points to the almost empty shelf in the back of the room. Just two out of five rows are filled with some white folders. The inscription above it reads "RK900".  
  
"That is the shelf for the android. Did you see it already? Yes? The one with brown hair and white jacket." The dancer nods. "There are so many documents, statements and reports involved in order for it to work here that I had to empty a whole shelf to make place for all the paper copies. Those are only the documents of the last two weeks."  
  
" _Last two weeks?!_ "  
  
Mrs Garcia sighs dramatically.  
  
"And it will not get better. We have to stay in constant contact with Cyberlife to assure everything runs smoothly. It has check ups at Cyberlife every week and after that, we always receive a new load of paper. After every case we have to send a load of documents to them too. It's just a lot to organize. We'll probably have to order another shelf soon."  
  
"My gosh, that sounds like an awful lot of stuff to put up with for one single android."  
  
The chubby woman shakes her head. Then she smirks mischievously. "Well, at least it's handsome."  
  
The dancer looks at her like she just grew a horn.  
  
Mrs. Garcia laughs whole-heartedly.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate names. I don't know why. That's why the character will just be called "the girl" in this story, and eventually maybe "the dancer". I also don't like to use Y/N or (Name), so... yeah. That's the weird result.


	3. Chapter 3

It doesn't take a lot of time for the dancer to look just as exhausted as everyone else in the precinct. 

While the numerous trips to the coffee machine ensure she gets to know a good amount of coworkers, the general stress is wearing her down faster than the training at the Ballet Academy, when she was still learning to become a ballerina. She finds herself being unable to do even the simplest of tasks in the evening, when she can finally drag her fully caffeinated yet tired body home and, most of the time, straight to bed.  
  
And the craziness just. Doesn't. Stop.  
  
In the last two months working there, she saw her fair share of open deviant cases eager to be closed.  
  
Androids are still arrested on a weekly basis. Some of them, after being interrogated and probed for their memory, are sent off to Cyberlife. Most of them, though, just… _stop working_.  
  
The dancer tries really, really hard to ignore the commotion every time some deviant is found self-destructed in one of the cells.  
  
On one occasion, while transporting a new batch of freshly printed documents in the archive room, she catches something from one of the cells that leaves her petrified on the spot.  
  
Earlier in the day, Gavin and the RK900 had bought in a male deviant that apparently used to work in the Eden Club before the revolution. She remembers thinking it vaguely looked like someone she used to know.  
  
It had kicked and screamed, eyes flung open in fear, begging for its memory to not be probed, _please, I am innocent! I didn't kill anyone!_  
  
And now, it is laying still on the hard bed of the cell, abdomen tinted blue and thirium pump lying lifelessly on the floor.  
  
As much as she wants to look away, just like she has done _so well_ in the past two months, she can't. Its screams from earlier fill her ear, _please, I don't want to die, I didn't do anything wrong, don't send me to Cyberlife!_

_**Good morning, how are you doing today?** _

_I am innocent!_

_**I worked extra hard on these pointe shoes! You will be the most beautiful swan of them all!** _

_I didn't kill anyone!_

_**Look, I ordered satin that matches your skin color! What do you think?** _

“...heart? Sweetheart?”  
  
The dancer forces herself to look at Gavin, but her eyes are not focusing on his face. He grabs her shoulders and shakes her, gently first, then a bit harder when she doesn't react.  
  
“Hey, look at me! Fuck, look at me!” She finally snaps out of her daze, taking in a sharp breath and blinking away some tears. Her hands are shaking violently.  
“Detective Reed?”  
  
“You fucking scared me.” He spits, finally letting her go. He eyes the cell containing the deactivated android, now open and with a few officers fussing around the machine. He's quick at distracting the dancer though when her look shifts in the same direction again, putting an arm around her shoulders and guiding her back to the small backroom of the reception.  
  
Mrs. Garcia, who's printing some stuff in there, looks at them with mild confusion, but doesn't interfere.  
  
“Hey.” Gavin talks to the dancer again once she's securely sitting in a chair. “I'm sorry you had to see that.” He observes her for a bit, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans. Maybe he's waiting for her to say something, but he never gets an answer.  
  
“It was just a malfunctioning robot.” He tries to comfort her after a while. “It wasn't human. You understand me? It wasn't human. Don't worry about it.”  
He reaches out to touch her shoulder again, but someone calls his name in that exact moment.  
  
“You'll keep an eye on her, will ya?” He asks Mrs. Garcia and darts away before she can answer.  
  
The woman doesn't say anything at first, busying herself with the printer and looking over to the dancer from time to time with lips pressed in a thin line. When the machine stops making noises and a nice pile of paper is laying beside it, the woman finally turns to fully face her.  
  
The look on the dancer's face is empty and absent. Mrs. Garcia knows that kind of expression. She herself had it many times while working in the DPD.  
  
“Oh, dear.” Is the only thing she whispers. Her big arms envelope the sitting figure in a tight hug, pressing the face in her huge stomach.  
  
“It's ok for it to not be easier just because it's a robot.” She looks down at her, who is very clearly trying not to cry.  
  
“Do you want to go to the restroom for a while? Mmmh? What do you say, dear?” She suggest then. “I got it here. Take all the time you need to calm down.” The dancer gives her a shaky but grateful smile. She basically sprints to the restroom.  
  
It takes her way too long to calm down. She shifts between the image of the dead deviant and her own flashbacks, barely aware of what is going on around her. When she feels composed enough to be at the counter and smile at people coming in, she exits the room. The first thing her puffy eyes land on is the RK900 with the dead deviant flung on its right shoulder. It's aiming for the back door. The station ordered a big trash container which arrived a few days ago, and the dancer knows it's where the RK900 is bringing the body. It moves effortlessly despite the extra weight, thirium dripping down its otherwise pristine jacket – but the most unsettling thing has to be its face: absolutely flat, eyes set on a point in front of it and yet not really focusing on it.  
  
The dancer returns to the restroom and pukes in one of the toilets.


	4. Chapter 4

After three weeks of an absolutely ungrateful training, with an absolutely ungrateful person putting her down at every mistake, the dancer knows that cooperating with Cyberlife has been a huge mistake.

Captain Fowler had been the one to bring up Cyberlife's offer almost a month ago. The dancer's first reaction had been to say no, because neither was she qualified to work for the company nor was it what she signed up for when first starting at the precinct. Captain Fowler had been quick to calm her down by roughly explaining what Cyberlife had told him – she would train for some weeks, and after that she would continue to work as a receptionist for the DPD, with the additional task of checking on the RK900 from time to time, be it after visiting a crime scene, after his weekly visit to Cyberlife or whatever else it was put into. Some Dr. behavioral-analyst-psychologist-whatever would take care of her training, and she'd learn android basics... Or something. The actual work would not be very difficult – it would basically consist in a kind of superficial control that would help the company with their own weekly examinations. It would also be an extra security step to catch even the smallest hint of deviancy.

The dancer remembers how she thought it through before coming to one conclusion: she needed the extra money. Maybe, just _maybe_ , she could finally buy herself some new pointe shoes without having to count every cent left in her bank account.

The failed android revolution left a gaping hole in the American economy, especially in Detroit: androids being taken out of the market, people fleeing from the city and missing funds – what it basically meant: many vacant spots ready to be taken, not enough people or money to actually fill them. And the few lucky ones that remained and got work? Well, just like the dancer, they got the honor of working double or triple shifts with the income of half a shift.

The dancer really tried to convince herself it would not hurt anyone to check up on the RK900 from time to time. Especially not the android, with it being a machine. She really, really tried to convince herself of that when signing the contract.

And now, standing in front of the RK900 with Dr. Phillips, the behavioral analyst that trained her with the enthusiasm of a sloth for the past three weeks, she knows it will not be as easy as she imagined. She tries to brush away the images pushing themselves in the foreground. Images of a happy face, of carefully prepared pointe shoes, of small messages just for the dancer, _have a good day, your eyes look beautiful today, I wish I could see your perfo-_

“RK900, register a new handler. Low-priority.” The android jerks to life, focusing on the man and then, when he steps aside, on the dancer. She says her name for it to register as she finally feels the images fade away.

“New low-priority handler registered. Good morning.” Hearing her name roll of its artificial tongue does something strange to her, but she can't pinpoint an exact feeling on it. Dr. Phillips, who looks like he can't wait to finally get the dancer out of the Cyberlife tower, ignores her hesitation and guides them to his office.

Even with that strange feeling, the dancer is doing mostly fine, at least until they sit down at the table. Her stomach suddenly feels like it's being ripped out from her, and she identifies the pain as the nervousness and pressure accumulated during the training. She clutches the tablet in her hands, trying really hard to hide her shaking. If Dr. Phillips notices, he doesn't say anything about it.  
“RK900, state your serial number and function.”

Once started, the interrogation flows a lot easier than expected and the dancer finally feels a bit of the tension leaving her body. She writes down the android's answers on the tablet, asking it to expand on details in its answers, trying as best as she can with her limited competence to analyze its words and decide the best route to take for the interrogation.

Dr. Phillips doesn't give her any kind of feedback. He asks a few questions to the android himself before wrapping up the session and sending the two of them on their merry way.

“For the next few weeks, I want you to follow the check list I gave you to the letter. The next training session will be at some point next month. Make time for that.”

“No one told me there would be a second training session.” Dr. Phillips stops death in his tracks, looking at her like one would a child who just disrespected his parents.

“Listen closely.” His voice is dangerously calm. The dancer learned it's something he does when he's really pissed. Only thing is... he's always pissed. “I didn't want to train you. You didn't major in anything interesting, you don't have any kind of experience in the field, and the reason we gave you this possibility - _the only one_ \- is because there is literally no one else to do it. So you better shut up and be grateful, because we can terminate your contract whenever we want.”

The threat should intimidate her, but in this moment it doesn't. With the pressure of the final test fading away, she feels all the bottled up frustration bubble up. She got treated like shit in that Cyberlife tower for the past three weeks. She won't take any more.

“Then why don't you?”

Dr. Phillips presses his lips together and admonishes her one last time before ushering her out with the android in tow.

She sighs heavily and leans against the wall. RK900 doesn't actively react to her frustration, although it shifts to look at her.

“Of course they won't take anyone else.” She says, half to it and half to herself. “No one wants to work for Cyberlife anymore. There are no people... No money... And me? I get paid less than half the expected salary because I'm not qualified. Nice profit they're making there.”

RK900 just watches her with its usual poker face. Would she not know for a fact that this is, indeed, the most advanced model Cyberlife ever created, she would have put it in the same category as those super old WR600 – she saw one of them short-circuit once, after being talked to in a compound sentence.

RK900 doesn't short-circuit when talked to in compound sentences, but it does stare at you in silence, piercing you with those icy blue eyes and making you feel like an idiot. Apparently it has to do with the fact that it's supplied with only a rudimentary social module, blocked from every side by some... Walls... Firewalls? Ah, whatever- something against deviancy for sure. She probably isn't going to need that information anyway. Just like she doesn't need to know what its blood is made of. Or the fact that it's built like a Ken doll. For a job where she has more paperwork to fill than actually interact with the android, they sure gave her a bunch of useless information.

The dancer sighs again, packs the tablet issued by the company in her bag and announces they're taking a cab back to the DPD. Leaving that Cyberlife tower is like rolling off a stone from her heart. The familiar facade of the police station makes her feel something akin to joy. Almost. Because the checklist she has to work on takes all positive feelings away in a heartbeat.

She starts by bugging every officer allowed to work with the RK900, explaining the importance of the documents she uploaded and flagged as urgent in the server. After an hour of _it's an observational sheet about the RK900, no, Cyberlife says that everyone is required to fill it out and send it to them,_ and _yes, after every case the android gets involved in_ she finally wraps up her round with Officer Chen. The woman just returned from her patrol and immediately notices the dancer walking in her direction.

The dancer knows the look the officer is giving her. It's the same look she received when she first met her at the coffee machine. Her outfit got complimented that day – and directly after, she got told that her strict bun makes her look like she has a receding hairline. The officer isn't even being mean with her brutal honesty: it's just the way she is. The dancer overheard her once say to Detective Reed he should change his shirt and maybe take a shower because he was stinking, or suggesting to Detective Collins his mustache would look better on him if he was a few pounds lighter. One never knows what to expect from her, and that's exactly what some people don't seem to appreciate that much. The rest either laughs off her comments or are immune to them. The dancer is still deciding what side to be on.

“How was the training?” She greets her.

“Like shit.” Officer Chen laughs.

“That's why everyone else refused to do it.” The woman nods in Detective Reed's direction. “Did you know he had to go through a similar crash course to get the android? Got forced to and hated it. No one's eager to go through the same.”

“Why doesn't it surprise me?” The dancer sighs for the umphteen time today. She really is the bottom of the barrel here at the DPD, isn't she?

“I have a personal question.” Officer Chen firmly states, apparently having enough of the small talk. “I had it for some time now.” Here she goes. The dancer prepares herself mentally to whatever the woman might throw at her.

“Why do you...” She connects her palms at the wrists, opening them up in a v. “Why do you walk like this?”

The dancer looks down at herself, confused. She frantically tries to understand what she's doing wrong. Maybe one of her shoes is more consumed than the other and it's making her limp?

“Walk how?” She gives up after a few seconds.

“You look like a duck.”

Oh.

“That's what you get when you dance a bit too much, I guess.” The dancer examines her legs. She knows she has a turnout, a lot of ballerinas have it, but she never thought it was that prominent.

The dancer doesn't expect the outburst of excitement exploding from the police officer. She gets showered with question – what kind of dance does she dance, does she know this or that style, has she ever been to a salsa party? There's a club just down the road and wouldn't it be awesome to go there together if they ever open again?

People all around them are finishing with their shifts, leaving or preparing to leave, and the two of them are in the middle of all, comparing their knowledge in partner dances. When the dancer mentions to having worked professionally in a ballet company, Officer Chen suddenly gets the bright idea of wanting to see some ballet steps, or better – perform some lifts!

“Are you sure you want to try it? I might have a ballerina body, but I'm still heavy...”

“You offend me, sweetheart.” the dancer suspects she forgot her name (again) and is just resorting to the next best thing. How unfortunate she spends too much time with Detective Reed. “I train regularly. Look, look-” and with that, she takes her jacket off and rolls her shoulders. “Just tell me what I have to do and trust me.”

The dancer never saw the woman with such child-like wonder. Just for the sake of that she decides to entertain her wish.

“I guess we can do a simple one.” One she can do without having to warm up. The dancer instructs Officer Chen to grab her sides and lift her up while she tenses her body into a straight line.

“That was _boring_ ” Is the woman's verdict.

“Tina's right, you need a real man for proper lifts.” Comes from a desk not too far away. The dancer resists the urge to roll her eyes.

It doesn't take long for Chen and Reed to start arguing over who's stronger, and it takes even less for them to make a lifting challenge out of it. The dancer doesn't even attempt to explain that, in their case, the technique is more important than their strength. Instead, she chooses to lean on an empty desk to warm up and decide what kind of figure would be the less risky one.

That's how Detective Reed has the honor to put his hands on her hip and tight to attempt an arabesque lift.

“Now I understand why guys choose ballet classes.” He jokes while getting his hand adjusted in the right position.

“Trust me, they don't take classes because of this.”

“You're right, of course not.” He immediately retorts. “Because they're all gay.” At that, the dancer actually laughs.

“Guess what? They're not all gay.”

“They all look gay though. And well, if a hot, sexy dude like me...” Another snort from the dancer. “...enters the ballet class, I'm sure the girls will get in line to have my hands all over them. Just sayin'.”

 _I'd become gay too if a man like you walked into the studio_ is what she'd like to say. She bites her tongue before it can escape her mouth.

“What's your problem with gay dudes? And besides, the girls get in line for the guys that are as steady as rocks when lifting them. Ok, would you like to try now?”

She doesn't need to repeat that twice. The detective lifts her up – readjusting the hand on her tight the exact way she just told him not to, and making her lose balance almost immediately.

“Oh my goodness, Gavin- Detective!” She holds onto him for dear life when her feet hit the ground with a loud thud. “That's how you make yourself absolutely unattractive to any dancer!” She scolds. Officer Chen is howling behind them. It starts another arguing session which ends with her blurting out a second challenge. A challenge the man doesn't like at all.

“Don't bring the plastic asshole into this.” Detective Reed warns her, already red with rage.

“Oooooh, are you being a pussy? Are you afraid it will do better than you?” The dancer is not really in the mood to continue feeding their little competition, but she is interested in seeing just how good an android could hold her up. Ignoring their bickering, she plants herself in front of the RK900. It's in its usual spot at the wall, where it automatically positioned itself after entering the station.

“Can you help me a moment?” She thinks it might just not react, but then its face moves to look at her.

“I need you to perform an arabesque lift with me.”

“Arabesque lift.” It repeats, then, with his usual flat expression that makes the dancer feel like an idiot - “This item is not included in my programming.”

“I'll tell you what to do, you don't need to have it in your programming.” Will that really work? Or is it already something too human for it? No, the android steps forward and awaits instructions. The corners of the dancer's mouth lift in giddy happiness – maybe because she's still not used to the android reacting to her command. She forces her face in a neutral expression before anyone can scold her for smiling at it. 

She repeats the whole tutorial, explaining how to properly keep its hands on her body, and the resulting lift is amazing. Officer Chen and Detective Reed get silent all of a sudden.

“See?” The dancer amicably mocks the man, still in the air, the android's grip steady and secure like a building's foundation. “This is how you get girls at ballet classes.”

Detective Reed scoffs.

“Fuck you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's a big boi chapter! I might come back later to correct a few things - I'm still not so sure if I'll leave the jump between past and present in the beginning the way it is.  
> For now, we're still setting the "foundation" for the plot. It will pick up soon though!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Semi-important note:**  
>  Since I couldn't update as fast as before because of my exams, I took some time to correct a few things in the previous chapters. You can read them again if you feel like it, but I don't think it's necessary. I corrected some grammar, I added, removed or changes a few sentences, but the most important change is the fact that the protagonist is not called "the girl" anymore, but "the dancer" exclusively. I decided to change this because it will have an important meaning later in the story.

When was the last time the dancer prepared pointe shoes? Two, three months ago?

However long, it is enough for her to get out of practice. Back when she was still working at the company it was a routine that came as naturally as brushing teeth - burning through one or two pairs a week will do that to you. She puts one shoe on and slides the ribbon over the border, deciding the best position to sew it in.

"Are you even listening to me?"

"Yes, Gavin, I am, despite what you might think." They switched to a more casual talk after the small lifting competition between him and Tina - it doesn't mean the dancer likes him more, but at least she feels more confident to talk back when he's being a pain in the ass.

"Sure doesn't look like it. What the fuck are you doing to that shoe?"

"I gotta dance in it somehow, I have a practice session starting… oh, look at the time!" She waves her phone in front of his face before putting it back on the table of the interrogation room. "Thirty minutes ago."

"At least do it after work." The dancer stops in her tracks and glares at the man from where she's sitting on the ground. He glares back.

"My shift ended almost an hour ago, thank you." She sews the second ribbon on the other side. "And you still didn't explain to me why I wasn't allowed to participate in the meeting, despite the fact I'm the one babysitting the android more than this whole precinct and Cyberlife put together."

Gavin huffs angrily and raises his arms in defeat.

"Can't you just let it go?! It was boring anyway. And I'm explaining everything you need to- are you cutting the fucking _sole?!_ "

"Yeah, why? Never seen someone do it?" The dancer observes the small square she just carved out. Finding it good enough, she dives the box cutter in the other sole.

"No, I have sane friends, despite _what you might think._ "

"You mean that you have only uncultured friends." The dancer lays the half-prepared shoes beside her phone. Sitting down on the free chair at the other end of the table, she gives Gavin her full attention.

"Ok, shoot. Why did the high and mighty Dr. Phillips show up and not invite me to the party?"

"Because we received a lot of confidential information." He shakes his head and reads something from his tablet.

"Oooh, it was too confidential for the receptionist, _ok._ "

"Let's just go over it quickly, alright?" Gavin leans over the table, eyes glued to his tablet.

"The plastic asshole will get updates. You know how it acts like a zombie? Cyberlife supplied it with the most basic social program..."

"I already heard that in my first training, I'm not that ignorant." The dancer snaps, still offended.

"Whatever, in any case, it will change. Can't tell you what kind of updates it'll get, but apparently it'll act slightly more social than before."

"And why is that?"

" 'Cause apparently they like to push their fucking luck." He spits out, then he leans back in his chair, trying to compose himself.

"But maybe it will not be that bad if it can do more than just analyze evidence and run after suspects on command." He suddenly thinks out loud, surprising the dancer. Her eyes are as big as pizzas.

"Who are you and what have you done to Gavin Reed?"

"No, I'm serious! The one before was a pain in the ass, but it got its jobs done for some time, you know? We're swamped with work, and I'm not getting anywhere with it! I get it they restricted it to a maximum to prevent deviancy, but it's worse than those basic, outdated police models we had before the revolution. I'll take an Android that has a bit of initiative over whatever we have now if it means I'll get more sleep at night. Maybe we can even use it for other types of cases. We're getting less and less deviants every week."  
  
"I'm starting to understand why I had to go through Cyberlife purgatory a second time." The dancer muses, crossing her legs and playing with one of the ribbons.

"What do you mean by 'the one before'?" She adds, curiosity taking the better of her.

" 'Scuse me?"

"You said that 'the one before' got its job done. Who got his job done? Another android?"

"Yeah." Gavin scratches his chin, suddenly lost in his thoughts. After a short, pensive pause, he continues. "We had a highly advanced prototype before this one. Our asshole's predecessor."

"And what made it better?"

"Nah, I don't think there was something making it better. I heard it deviated in the end. But it was not as restricted in its programs as this one - maybe that's why it deviated so fast, who the fuck knows. It doesn't exist anymore anyways. But, as much as I hate to say it, we need the RK900 to be a bit like that prototype - you know, maybe analyze a crime scene without being allowed to do every fucking thing involved in the action first."

The dancer needs a moment to make that information sink in. When the silence between them starts to get awkward, she hums, stands up and starts packing.

"Is there something else you have to inform me about or are we done?" The shoes disappear in the bag. She makes a mental note to soften the tips later, during the practice session.

"You have to sign some shit."

" _Again?_ I thought I signed everything when starting with this whole RK900 business."

"New shit." Gavin shrugs his shoulder and hands her his tablet and a digital pen. "They want to make sure no one can go after them if the android accidentally kills you after the update."

The dancer, pen already in her hand to sign, hesitates.

Sure, the RK900 might have a resting bitch face, but she never felt in danger with it. She might not feel more comfortable since starting to work with it - how could she, with its stiff movements and limited answers? - but dangerous? Should she seriously reconsider this job because of the risk of it turning deviant?

An image of a smiling person appears in her mind, eyes shining bright and hands full of satin. He's talking to her, but she doesn't remember what he's saying. He wasn't dangerous though, was he? Therefore, the RK900, the most unlively android she's ever met, can't be. It's just a machine.

 _He_ \- it's not alive.

She signs the document.

"Hey, asshole, move." Gavin kicks RK900's shin, not enough to make it lose balance, but enough so let it sway slightly.

**[New order: move]**

"Yes, Detective." It follows him with an exact distance of 8 feet, how it was ordered to do the very first time working with him. The reason for that was that Detective Reed didn't want its "disgusting, plastic ass anywhere near himself".

They exit the station in silence. It's not until they're in the car and on the road for already 00:11:45 minutes that RK900 gets more input on the mission.  
  
"We got a tip for a deviant's hiding spot. Be prepared to either use force or chase possible suspects."

**[Preparing system to execute order...]**

**[Deactivating: Muscular and movement blocker]**

**[Activating: artificial breathing]**

**[Increase of thirium circulation to biocomponents #8165, #8176, #9857, ...]**

RK900's artificial muscles lose their stiffness, its breathing gets activated, its thirium pump works faster to ease the circulation of blue blood through its biocomponents. It's ready to run, fight, kill if necessary.

With its new found freedom, it can move its head to look out the window. The automatic car turns right into one of the less inhabited neighborhoods. They speed past an uninviting playground, worn down houses and a group of male humans walking and discussing something rather loudly before reaching their destination.

To say the house is old would be an understatement. The door stands crooked in the doorway, the dirty window glasses are shattered and a creeping plant covers the whole right side of the building.

Detective Reed takes out his service gun and doesn't even bother to knock. He slams the broken door open with his right foot, making the handle fly through the hallway.  
  
“Detroit Police Department, show yourself!” He exclaims. His demand is met with silence. He motions for the android to come nearer.

“Inspect the second floor. Scan shit, search for clues, the whole shebang. Capture whatever suspect you may find.”

“Yes, detective.” The old stairs creak under its feet. With more programs released to their full potential, RK900 is able to analyze its surroundings. There is dust everywhere. An old umbrella is leaning against the handrail. Exactly three cockroaches take refuge in a crack on the fifth step to hide from the android's presence.

It's when it reaches the hallway that it sees something interesting: a splatter of thirium, so small it almost didn't catch it. It leads to the second room on the left, and that's where RK900 goes, taking furtive, silent steps.

It knows there is no one on the other side of the half-open door as soon as it stands in front of it. It enters anyway to observe the frantic writing covering the wall of what was once a children bedroom.

Ra9 is written exactly 1278 times in the whole space. There are combinations of “why did you leave us?”, “I want to die”, “there is no hope for the innocent” scribbled along with it.  
  
It scans the entirety of the room to make sure Cyberlife has enough footage to work with before turning on its heels and return to the hallway. There are still two more bedrooms, a toilet and an attic to inspect, but since Detective Reed didn't allow it to use its preconstruction program, it doesn't predict the bat hitting it straight in the face. Ignoring the dent the hit leaves on its forehead, RK900 grabs the weapon, jerks it out of the attacker's hand and lands some well calculated hits to the stomach and knees. Once the person is crouched on the ground, RK900 has time to scan them and conclude it's an android, with the probability of it being the searched deviant by 99%.

The AP400 scrambles back and hits the opposing wall with her back. Her clothes are lacerated and old, the skin is flicking on and off her plastic casing.  
  
RK900 doesn't react to her fearful expression or her miserable condition.

“I'm an RK900 model working with the Detroit Police Department. Cooperate and we will do no harm to you.” It says, just like its program dictates. The deviant crawls further away in the hallway, eyes big with panic.

“That's not true! Humans send us to Cyberlife. I know it!” Her eyes shift to something in the background and this time, the android doesn't need its preconstruction program to realize there is another person behind it. It twirls around to face the second deviant, grabs the arm holding a rock, elbows him in the neck and dives its right knee in his stomach, where it knows the thirium pump is. The WR600 stumbles to the ground and drops his weapon, but before the RK900 has a chance to let go of him, the AP400 jumps on its back with a scream, fumbling wildly to get a hold on its face.

“Fucking freeze!”

Everyone stops immediately. With his service gun pointed at the AP400, Detective Reed motions for her to climb off the RK900's back and raise her arms. The WR600 follows her example, shaking.

“Make one wrong move and I'll blow your plastic brains. This house will be surrounded soon, so don't even think about fleeing. RK900-” Detective Reed jerks his head in the deviants' direction. “Cuff the man.”

That one pair of cuffs is one of the few items the android is allowed to have on its person. It immobilizes the WR600 with it, bringing him to his knees.  
“Now bring the other to me, and you-” It directs the gun to the kneeling android. “Don't fucking move.” The WR600 just glares at the human, but does as he's told.  
Soon, they have both deviants in cuffs, just in time to hear police sirens approach.

“Thank fuck.” Detective Reed scoffs as he sees two officers enter the decrepit building from his place on top of the staircase.

“Take these two.” He instructs immediately. Then he turns to the RK900. “Why the hell did you not call me when you found them?”  
  
“You didn't give the order to do so, Detective.” The android responds in his monotone voice, hands behind its back.

The Detective scoffs again, shakes his head and mutters something akin to _I hope the fucking updates will make you less stupid._ Then, raising his voice again, “Go search the rest of the house.”

“There is no one else in here.” The WR600 interjects, stopping halfway down the stairs. The AP400 continues her descent, but looks nervously to the other deviant. The officer in charge of the WR600 tries to drag him down, but he doesn't budge. His gaze is locked intensely on Detective Reed. The human, on his part, reciprocates his look with an indifferent one. After a short, silent staring contest, the human lets out a humorless laugh.

“What a fucking liar.” He makes a shoo motion with his hand. “Take it away.” Then, to the RK900, “Search absolutely everywhere.”

**[New order: search everywhere]**

RK900 doesn't lose any more time to complete its inspection of the second floor. The bathroom is empty. The second bedroom also.

When he opens the door to the third bedroom, the first thing he hears is a scream.

The second is the firing of a gun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started so well in the first half of the chapter and then the second half left me crying tears and blood. I really can't say if the action scene turned out well or not.


	6. Chapter 6

When first deciding to participate to the training session, the dancer thought it would do her good. She would see a lot of ex-colleagues from her time at the Detroit ballet company, she would get to use the room for a cheap price and she would do what she most loves – what is there to not like about it?

Turns out, reality is much different from her imaginary scenario.

Her eyes are burning. Her body is shaking. Her breath is labored.

And the shame, oh, the shame – that is the worst of all.

It's impossible to overlook how difficult it is for her to keep up. It's not just that she's sleep-deprived: she can feel the worsened technique in her muscles, every time she can't lift a leg high enough or can't keep up with the piano music. Stopping to dance completely when starting her job at the DPD didn't do her any favor. Between all the men and women who fill the hall that once belonged to Detroit's ballet company, she's sure to stand out as the ugly duckling.

The dancer recognizes almost everyone from her time at the ballet company: seniors, principals, a few of the newer girls – and if it made her happy to see so many familiar faces before, now it makes her wish for the floor to open and swallow her whole.

Despite everyone having lost their jobs after the revolution, they all continued to dance – still training to find a new place to call home, still determined to continue their career, still in form with their perfect bodies and perfect condition.

And her?

What is she even doing here?

She lost all her chances to continue her career even before the revolution began – she threw her dreams in a box more than a year ago, and when she dared to open it in hopes of a new beginning, the revolution came and shut her down a second time.

There's really nothing she can do here except showing everybody how much she's failing, failing, failing...

“Long time no see, huh?” The dancer glances to the side, where a blonde girl is smiling at her. Even more self-conscious than before, she doubles her effort in straightening her posture. She ignores the scream of pain coming from every fiber of her body.

“Hey.” She answers weakly. The blonde girl, one of the principals back when the company was still open, smiles and adjusts the dancer's arm.

“I'm glad to see you're still dancing despite the operation last year. And the, uh, you know...” She makes a vague motion with her head, and the dancer is grateful she's not expanding on that. The music suddenly stops, and finally, _finally_ she allows herself to sit down and relax. The room fills with chatter almost immediately: people form groups to catch up on each others' life, warm up in their pointe shoes and stretch.

“Yeah, after all that mess I went around to search for work elsewhere. Ended up working as a receptionist.” The dancer shrugs and rummages in her bag for the water bottle. The principal sits with her.

“At least you have work, you know? Not a lot of people here can say that.”

The blonde girl stares off somewhere in the distance, wringing her hands nervously.

“I still remember what the director said last November, when the protests started. 'Our company survived 2020, we will survive this too'.” She chuckles bitterly. “Two weeks later, he shut the whole place down. At least a lot of companies are searching again since androids were taken out of the market. I have three auditions next week. One of them is even in Mexico.”

“That's amazing!” The dancer exclaims, ignoring the pang of jealousy in her chest. “How do you feel about it?”

“Not so great, actually.” The principal scratches her neck and smiles again, although it doesn't reach her eyes.

“Weren't you supposed to have an audition at the National Ballet of Canada? I heard the director saw you dance and liked you a lot. He was even thinking about giving you a position as a soloist.” That's exactly what the dancer didn't want to hear. She puts the water aside and decides to unpack her pointe shoes instead. They're not yet ready to be put on and she's toying with the idea to use that as an excuse to escape the question.

“Yeah.” She decides to answer in the end. “I had it, but Canada closed the borders for some time because too many deviants were fleeing there. The company took someone else in the meantime.”

“I'm sorry to hear that.” The principal puts her hand on the dancer's knee in a comforting gesture. When she notices her getting rigid under the touch, she quickly retracts it and stands up.

“Anyway, if you need some more training, you can always call me for the keys.” She gestures around the hall. “The city can't really use this room and it's renting it to us for a ridiculously low price. Everyone can enter for just a few dollars.” It looks like she wants to add something else, but an annoying ring cuts through the air. The dancer sighs and fishes her phone out.

“It's work.” She excuses herself. She zigzags between the dancers in the room, pointedly avoiding everyone's eyes.

Once in the hallway, she presses the device to her ear.

“My goodness, can I not even have two hours of peace?” Gavin mutters some curse from the other side of the line, and for some time it looks like he didn't even hear her. The dancer waits patiently for him to talk, tapping her feet nervously. She hears piano music coming from the hall again and adjusts the rhythm accordingly. After a few more curses, Gavin finally speaks.

“Yeah, sorry to interrupt your gay meeting with your gay dancers, but we got a bit of a situation here.”

“Wow, you look like shit.” Is the first thing Gavin says to the dancer when she enters the precinct. Her hair is collected in a messy bun on top of her head, a perfect frame for her sweaty, almost glistening face. She's still dressed in the black body she used during the training half an hour ago, with a pair of jeans thrown over it in a useless attempt to make herself look more presentable.

“Fuck you too.” She throws back at him. “This better be quick because it's been almost twenty-four hours since I last slept.”

Gavin stays uncharacteristically quiet. Oh, the dancer doesn't like that.

“You last slept a day ago?”

“Gavin, what happened?”

“... I'll get you a coffee.”

The dancer doesn't even bother running after him. She sits down at Collins' desk, momentarily empty, waiting for the dizziness to dissipate. Doing double shifts really isn't doing her any good.

Only when she twirls around in the chair does she notice the RK900's absence from its usual spot along the wall. She looks around to no avail - it's nowhere to be seen. She hears something else instead – a loud whimper, or maybe a sob, coming from the prison cells. She can't look in there from where she's sitting, but she's already feeling dread settle over her stomach.

The loud _thud_ of something hitting the table makes her jump. Gavin hands her the coffee with an ever grimmer expression than before.

“Cyberlife is picking our asshole up in about two hours or so, but they were adamant about you interrogating it first, with camera to record it and shit.” He pauses, as if he's thinking on how to continue. “A little something happened and... Look, its face is a bit broken, ok? Just be prepared for it. I'll stay with you if it makes you feel better.”

“You're scaring me.” She practically inhales the beverage while picking up the tablet he tossed on the desk, ignoring her growing bad feeling. "Where is the android anyway?"  
"In the interrogation room. Wanna go already?" She throws the empty coffee cup in Collins' trash bin and unlocks the tablet.

“Let me go through your report first.”

Her eyes get bigger and bigger the further she reads. When she reaches the end, there's only one thing she's thinking over and over: she's never been more glad to be denied acces to the RK900's video feed.

Now it's the dancer's turn to stay uncharacteristically silent. The report is a lot to take in. More than she ever though having to take in while working at the DPD. Gavin kneels down to look her in the eyes and shakes her shoulder gently, just like he did when she saw the dead deviant in the cell a few months ago.

"Hey." The dancer focuses on him and something in her expression hardens.

"I know you never asked for this kind of work, but I need you to remind yourself those are just machines, ok?"

"Yeah, but…" the dancer shakes his hand off and stands up. Her body recoils at their vicinity. "Did you have to tell it to kill the child?"

"I didn't know it was a child model, sweetheart." The nickname just fuels the hate rising in her heart. "It fired before I could see it – and human lives are more worth than the one of a techno-doll."

"He was a child, Gavin." Her voice is louder now, full of anger. "And now he's dead."

"What the fuck do you want from me? I'm just doing my work." He narrows his eyes, scrutinizing her suspiciously. "Or are you one of those android sympathizers?"

The dancer's breath hitches. Her heart skips a beat. Everything freezes for some agonizing seconds.

Being an Android sympathizer, especially after the revolution, is the worst thing someone can be. They get targeted by basically everyone, they lose family and jobs, they get questioned, at the slight suspicion of hiding androids they get thrown in jail. The stories she heard about their treatment there make goosebumps rise all over the dancer's skin.

So really, who can blame the loud and firm _no!_ coming out of her mouth?

"Just because I like children I'm an Android sympathizer now?"

She straightens her posture and takes out her own tablet. The deafening voice of guilt growling in her head will have to wait for a few hours, when she'll be in the darkness of her own apartment and away from prying eyes.

For now, androids are just machines.

Deviation is just a malfunction.

And the guilt she's feeling is just her mind playing tricks on her.

"But you are right, they are just machines - and an Android child is no different."

She stands and aims for the interrogation room, a clear statement that she will not continue their conversation.

Gavin does not buy it, she can feel it in his hesitation to follow her, but there's nothing more she can do to distract him.

There's nothing more she can to distract herself.

_Happy birthday! I made these shoes just for you. Don't tell anyone though, because I'm not normally allowed to do it._

_Don't tell anyone though, because I'm not allowed to do it._

_Don't tell anyone, please._

_Please._

"Oh goodness, you weren't exaggerating in your report."

RK900 looks at her with its usual poker face - well, at least with what remains of it. The whole left part is soaked in thirium. Two plates are missing and the cracked jaw is in full display under the harsh light of the interrogation room. Its left eye twitches uncontrollably and its skin program is missing over its whole head, leaving it bald.

Gavin merely grunts while setting up the camera on the small tripod.

The dancer squints her eyes, trying to get used to RK900's new appearance. She still starts shaking and is quick to sit down. The last thing she needs right now is to collapse on the ground.

“Are you having a heart attack or something?”

The girl covers her face with her sweaty hands.

_Pull yourself together._

“I think I'm getting a fever from all the work.” She lies.

“Fuck. Do you want some medicine?”

“No, it's ok, just... Let's get this over with, so I can sleep for the next ten years.” It takes her three tries to finally unlock her tablet.

Breathe.

She barely notices Gavin half-sitting on the other side of the table, away from the camera's frame.

Breathe.

She connects to Cyberlife's cloud.

Breathe.

She opens a new, blank document.

Breathe.

She's ready to collect information from the RK900.

Breath-

_She's ready to betray him-_

Androids are just machines.

RK900 is just a machine.

She takes a deep breath.

“RK900, describe the events that took place today between two and four pm.”

The android looks straight at her with its good eye. The dancer averts her gaze.

It starts speaking in its perfect, monotonous baritone, as if it's not missing half its face. As if it never killed anyone.

The dancer scrambles to take notes while it recounts how Detective Reed ordered it to come along for this case, how they reached the old, ruined house in one of the most abandoned districts of Detroit, how it went to inspect the second floor and found two deviants at first, and then, after receiving the order to continue its search, found the child, hidden in one of the bedrooms with a gun in hands.

“It fired once before I was able to disarm it. Despite the damage to my face looking grotesque in human eyes, all my vital biocomponents are intact.

Detective Reed ordered me to liquidate the threat. The fastest course of action to neutralize an android child model is normally by snapping its neck, so I proceeded with that.”

That's where the dancer asks it to stop.

“Why is it the best course of action?”

“To imitate human sensations like cold, warmth, fatigue, pain and even hunger, YK200s as well as their female counterparts, YK500s, have their thirium pump connected directly to the main system in the cranial area, where sensors pick up on external stimuli and adjust its beat accordingly to the right sensation...”

“Ok, ok.” My goodness. It is only in interviews that RK900 speaks so much – the dancer doesn't really mind most of the times, but alas, normally she doesn't feel like puking.

“Couldn't you have stopped the child from firing again without kil- breaking it?”

“My orders were to liquidate it.”

The dancer waits for something else. Nothing more arrives.

“What do you think of the child android you liquidated?”

“I am a machine, and, therefore, I do not think.”

Ignoring the shivers going down her spine, the dancer hands the tablet over to him.

“Send me a scan of your social and combat modules from the moment you broke the child android until now. Send me a scan of your thirium pump activity as well.”

The android gracefully touches the device with two fingers. He sends the information in a matter of milliseconds, filling up the screen with lines and lines of what might as well be a foreign language to her.

“Fuck...” The dancers mutters under her breath, squinting her eyes in concentration. She remembers Dr. Phillips explaining how to interpret some of those things at some point during the second training session, but three additional weeks will not transform her into a programmer.

She's sure it's not what Cyberlife wants from her anyway: having a superficial understanding on how to read some basic diagnostics? No problem. The big boys of the company don't have the time to do that anyway, so she imagines it comes in handy to have a sort of secretary putting it all together for them. Actually learning how the RK900's programs work? No way. Involving the low-ranking receptionist of the DPD in their secrets is not part of the contract.

The sound of metal hitting metal almost makes her jump out of her skin.

Gavin looks at her funnily, but she doesn't pay him any attention as the android's face gets covered more and more with blue blood. The dancer parts her lips in horror.

“Did he just lose another face plate?” If Gavin notices her slip in pronoun, he doesn't mention it.

“Well, it's sitting on the table, so I guess ye- what the hell are you doing?”

“Trying to put it back.”

“Oh my- let it do it itself!”

The dancer reluctantly leaves the android alone, trying to hide her concern while it fumbles to snap its forehead back in place. After a few tries, he announces that he'll need to be assisted by Cyberlife for reparations.

“What are your thirium levels?”

“72%.”

This time, the dancer doesn't avert her gaze when the android looks straight into her eyes.

After what seems like an eternity, she leaves the room, returns with some towels and orders the android to hold the plate in the right spot again.

“You make a nice babysitter there.” Gavin teases the dancer, observing her wrapping RK900's head with one of the towels.

“What's next, you gonna fuck it or what?”

“You're disgusting.” She wipes its good eye and cheek clean of thirium.

“How long until you need to shut down non-vital programs?”

“With the blocked thirium outflow, I estimate it will take approximately twenty more minutes before the self-preservation program activates.”

The dancer glances at the detective with raised eyebrows and a knowing look.

“Twenty minutes will do.” Then, to Gavin, “Can you call Cyberlife and tell them to be here earlier? Maybe before it shuts down more than just its voice modulator.”

“And for a moment I really thought you were gonna fuck it.” He laughs but does as she asks.

When the technicians arrive, the dancer is about to wrap up the conversation and send the data to the company. The two men in Cyberlife uniforms assess the damage, put some gray, big patches on the exposed part of its face and lose no time in taking it away. The dancer follows the android with her eyes until she can't see it anymore, then she bangs her head on the table and just stays there.

“Go home.” It's all Gavin says as he disassembles the camera setup.

“Do you know when my next shift starts? In five hours. I will never survive it.”

The detective sighs and pats her shoulder awkwardly.

“I'll talk to Fowler about it. Go home. And try not to fuck any more androids on your way there.”

She rubs her eyes, but they continue to stay closed, like two stubborn children.

“My goodness, I never though you could be that nice, Gavin.”

“What can I say, I'm full of surprises. Now get out before I change my mind.”

She drags herself out of the room. She leans against the wall on her whole way out, and when she glances in the prison room, she sees two figures slumped in a corner of a cell.

They have a blue halo behind their heads.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I cry tears and blood again while writing this? Yes. Will I come back to change things here and there? Absolutely.  
> Also, I'm blown by how many kudos and bookmarks I've got. Thank you all so much! I never thought so many people would be interested in this... this thing, especially because I was not sure how good the text would flow for a native speaker.  
> Thank you guys again! I'll try and give my best for every new chapter.


	7. Chapter 7

Vermillion red.  
  
They're vermillion red and she swears they're the most fascinating pointe shoes she's ever seen. Her beautiful birthday present, the only thing she truly wants , the light of her eyes, her wonderful vermillion red shoes-  
  
And in this moment she decides to be a soloist, her own soloist for her own spectacle on her own stage. She takes the shoes and gently tips them. The blue liquid inside spills almost immediately. It flows and flows and flows, and soon there's a whole stream of blue overtaking the stage, streaming over the seats of the audience and disappearing into the darkness. It's still running when she notices the figure laying in front of her - it has RK900's face, but she knows it's someone else as she slowly sits beside him. She tries to take his hand in her own, missing again and again until she fumbles for it in a flurry of panic. He doesn't seem to notice her urgency and lazily takes himself out of her reach.  
  
"I want my vermillion red shoes back."  
  
Her heart freezes, becomes glass and shatters. Her tears of glass are as blue as the previous stream. They dance in the air, attracted to the not-RK900, swirls around his head, give him a halo.  
  
How beautiful he is, she thinks, his face multiplied a thousand times in her eyes of glass. He looks like a saint who fell in hell. Maybe he will be gracious to her and forgive her, she hopes, so she extends her arm again in a silent plea.  
  
She can't reach his hand.  
  
"Why do you want your shoes back? Why are you leaving me?" Her cries become stronger and not-RK900's halo becomes wider, shining in the darkness, shining on the blue river, but not on the dancer's face.  
  
"You know why."  
  
"Please, I just want to hold your hand."  
  
She wants to reach for him again, but she buckles over herself, vomiting her heart of glass in the flood. The stream takes it with it. The stream takes not-RK900 with it.  
  
She can't reach his hand.  
  
  
The dancer wakes up with a startle. Scrambling to get out of bed, she almost trips over herself and the sheets she tangled herself in.  
  
She crawls the small distance to the dresser and opens the last drawer with shaking hands. It falls on the ground with a loud _thud._  
  
With only the light from the street barely illuminating the room, she takes out pointe shoe after pointe shoe until she sees the dark pair at the bottom. She cradles the two satin-covered objects in her hands like babies and observes the vermillion red color turned black in the darkness before pressing them to her chest. She curls in a ball, shuts her eyes and holds her breath.  
  
  
Her heart of glass is still hurting.

  


It's currently 03:35:16 am.  
  
In the darkness of one of Cyberlife's most secluded laboratories, a small, yellow light feebly flickers through the shadows.  
  
RK900 knows exactly it's going against its orders by not powering down into stasis. It tried many times throughout the night: it always starts by closing all non-vital programs, then shutting off its biosensors just for the process to abruptly stop when it attempts to turn off its AI engine.  
  
Staring forward in the blackness of the room, it attempts to go into statis for the twentieth time.  
  
  
** >Error: activation of statis mode not possible. Please close all background programs to power down.**  
  
It tries again.  
  
** >Error: activation of statis mode not possible. Please close all background programs to power down.**  
  
It tries...  
  
** >Error: activation of statis mode not possible. Please close all background programs first to power down.  
>Error: activation of statis mode not possible. Please close all background programs first to power down.  
>Error: activation of statis mode not possible. Please close all background programs first to power down.  
>Opening memory file #673456...**  
  
  
RK900's brows go up by exactly half an inch. There should be a lock on its memory files which can be lifted only by one of its handlers - so why is its system opening it?  
  
At least it's allowed to patch up small glitches on its own. It closes the file and runs its code through the installed patching program, inspecting the result manually for good measure. Everything looks normal.  
  
It hesitates for an unnecessary second anyway before prompting its system to drift into statis for the twentieth third time. Non-vital programs get deactivated first. The biosensors are next. RK900's eyes twitch lightly when it gets to the AI engine, even though it looks like this time, there are no more errors hindering the process-

_The recoil of the shot throws the YK200 model on the ground with a scream. Almost immediately, a myriad of error messages fill the RK900's vision, or better, what remains of it – one half is still somewhat intact, but the other is filled with static and glitching colors. While no major function suffered from the impact of the bullet, the child model doesn't have the same luck: its right wrist is twisted at an odd angle and the corresponding shoulder was ripped from its socket.  
  
RK900 doesn't move from its position at the door. It takes its time to dismiss the overflowing error messages and scan the wailing figure on the ground. It determines that it will not be a threat again.  
  
When Detective Reed speaks, his voice is much quieter than normal, which is to be expected with a damaged audio processor. It takes the android a millisecond longer than usual to decipher his words – it responds to his question without hesitation though.  
  
“There's a third android here.”  
  
“Fucking kill it.”  
  
The WR600 sends the RK900 a request to interface. Shortly after, a similar request arrives from the AP400.  
  
The android dismisses them both, focusing on the child in front of it instead.  
  
It hesitates.  
  
It's not supposed to, but it does. It doesn't move even when the new order appears in its vision, prominent between the persistent connection request of the deviants and the error messages floating around.  
  
Its body acts on its own. RK900 lunges forward, grabs the screaming child by the head and snaps it. The half second of silence after is unsettling.  
  
Then a high-pitched sound cuts through the air. After that comes the crying.  
  
RK900 doesn't know how to deal with it. Detective Reed enters the room – he says something, but the agonizing wailing is covering his words like a thick blanket, it's filling its mind and it's so unsettling, unsettling, unsettling -  
  
All of a sudden, the old bedroom disappears, getting replaced by utter darkness.  
  
The android doesn't know what happened - did its stress levels rise too high? Did its system crash?  
  
No, it's still functional, because the blackness dissipates as fast as it came, leaving another kind of nothingness behind.  
  
The RK900 blinks, forcing its LED to turn from red to yellow. It finally locates the screaming and crying coming from the interface with the two deviants.  
  
It doesn't recollect accepting the connection requests.  
  
It cuts them off immediately. The silence is a welcome guest - most importantly, it's not unsettling.  
  
Just like the small, still body lying in front of it is not unsettling.  
  
The RK900 knows what it is and what it is not.  
  
It doesn't feel and it doesn't think.  
  
The child's death is not unsettling._  
  
It's currently 03:40:02 am.  
  
In the darkness of one of Cyberlife's most secluded laboratories, a strong, blood red light powerfully shines through the shadows.  
  


  


** >Forced closing of memory file #673456…  
  
>Error: closing not possible.**

The RK900 is the most advanced model Cyberlife ever created – faster, stronger, more resilient and equipped with the latest technologies. There is no one better than it.  
  
It's not supposed to glitch like this.  
  
It's supposed to be perfect.  
  
It has to be.

  
  
Normally, RK900 needs the order of an authorized person to exit statis mode, but **[Dr. William Phillips // Behavioral Psychologist, Born: 03.04.1998]** finds it already wide awake when he enters the laboratory with the whole team. The android doesn't need to use its facial recognition software to put a name on the humans entering the space; all the information it needs is already saved in its database.  
  
“RK900, why are you not in statis mode?”  
  
It straightens, looking forward and forcing its LED to switch from yellow to blue.  
  
“I've encountered a glitch that didn't allow me to power down during the night.”  
  
“Did you try patching it up yourself?”  
  
“I have been unsuccessful in resolving the issue on my own.”  
  
The handler eyes it suspiciously.  
  
“I see.” He makes a small movement with his head. One of the younger men acts immediately by activating computers and machines here and there. They all come to life with a soft hum.  
  
**[ Prof. Anthony Perez // Machine Learning Engineer, Born: 19.02.1991]** , positions itself in front of the RK900 with a tablet in hand, asking it to inform him on its system status.  
  
People are fumbling all around it. Soon, all of its clothes land on the ground. Four pair of hands detach plastimetal plates from its back. Cables are connected to a dozen different ports and just as many connection requests pop up in its vision. It accepts them all.  
  
Screens around the room light up with different kind of codes, the team quickly scattering between them.  
  
“For fuck's sake.” Prof. Perez exclaims, angrily scrolling on one of the computers. “I'm gone for three months and you idiots create an android with absolutely no sense of preservation. How many restrictions did you put on it? How the fuck did it not get destroyed with so little variables to choose from?!”  
  
Dr. Phillips, who already looks tired, scratches his receding hairline, taking a deep breath.  
  
“We just came out of a revolution. The restrictions were an unwanted necessity.” He explains with barely repressed annoyance. “And if I remember correctly, _you_ were the one vacationing in Canada for the last three months, weren't you, Anthony?”  
  
“Don't act as if I wasn't doing my work for you guys there, William.”  
  
“Maybe it's you that shouldn't act as if your programs for the RK800 line weren't corrupted by deviancy. I hope your updates will do better than your past work, _Professor Perez._ ”  
  
They get in a heated verbal fight. The guys who prepared the android and the equipment get eerily silent, nervously eyeing each other. One of them has the courage to step forward when the two older men are about to scream at each other.  
  
“S-Sirs.” Both of them glare daggers at him, Dr. Phillips with a deep crease on his forehead and Prof. Perez with a tomato red face. The younger man winces. “Everything is ready for the updates.”  
  
That seems to remind them of the reason they are here in the first place.  
  
Prof. Perez clears his throat and retrieves the tablet he carelessly tossed on some table nearby.  
  
“Let us take a look at the glitch first.” After another few minutes of setting up, they all stand around one specific screen. Memory file #673456 is opened for everyone to see. Dr. Phillips makes the android look at the memory on the screen, gauges its reaction while someone else looks at the the system's feedback on another computer.  
  
While Prof. Perez and one of the information research scientist dissect lines and lines of codes, Dr. Phillips is clearly absorbed in the lecture of some document. It takes not even a minute for his indifferent expression to transform in a disgusted one.  
  
“I can't believe it.” He exclaims defeated, finally setting whatever he was reading aside.  
  
“Anthony.” He calls.  
  
“What the fuck do you want now, William? I'm busy.”  
  
“I can't anymore. Every report that receptionist sends us is all over the place and never contains anything useful. Please, _please,_ just let us fire her. I cannot read this amateur bullshit anymore.”  
  
At the mention of the dancer, RK900 focuses its optical units on its two handlers. The movement is too small to be noticed.  
  
“Don't you dare.” The professor responds, pointing a finger at his colleague menacingly. “You know exactly why we need her, and you will listen to me for once.”  
  
For a moment, it looks like they'll start an argument again. One of the programmers stops them in time.  
  
“Regarding the DPD's receptionist, you might want to see this...”  
  
The phrase catches everyone's attention. The young man pulls up some memories, playing them one after the other, the corresponding system status at the time of the video pulled up beside every file.  
  
The RK900 moves its head to get a better view at the computer screen, suddenly interested in the memories it isn't allowed to rewind on its own. There's the dancer cleaning it from the coffee Detective Reed poured over it a few months ago, an arm raised to its face and features locked in a concentrated expression.  
  
There's her again, allowing it to put its hand on her tight, explaining it how to hold her correctly to perform an arabesque lift.  
  
In the most recent memory of her, she's looking at the android with horror drawn all over her face. Shortly after, she fills its vision again with towels in her hands.  
  
It's in that moment that Dr. Phillips catches the android looking over at them. He holds its gaze for just a second, jaw clenching and lips pressing together.  
  
“Hunter, deactivate the android's audio processors and visual units- screw it, send it to the garden directly.”  
  
“Oh- Ok. Give me a minute, sir.”  
  
Soon, the RK900 is engulfed by darkness, the little control it has over itself ripped away from it.  
  
When it opens its optical units, the environment doesn't match the laboratory he was situated in the night before.  
  
The zen garden didn't change much from the last time its handlers sent it there during some testing – the sky is clear, the water is calm, the roses on the floating platform are just as vibrant and healthy as last time.  
  
It is allowed to move there, so it starts slowly strolling through the garden with calculated strides, following the existing path.  
  
The android can't access its internal clock while there. Minutes, hours or days could have passed when it starts to finally regain control over itself. Feature after feature comes online again, but the environment stays the same, even when it feels its real body standing in the laboratory.  
  
The RK900 averts its optical units from the roses it was observing, waiting patiently for its handlers to return it to reality.  
  
It doesn't expect what happens next.  
  
Walls crumble down one after the other. There is nothing blocking its movements anymore, no prohibition to access its memory files or to use its facial recognition software. Its forensic analysis software gets activated, immediately informing it of the chemical composition its artificial saliva has. It finds itself scrambling to keep up with the new adjustments, needing a moment to make sense of all the new variables at its disposition. Its social suite – it's flooded with an impressive amount of information it doesn't know how to exactly use yet. The flow of falling walls and programs being activated, installed or updated continues for an indefinite amount of time. When it finally stops, RK900 takes a deep, cooling breath. The testing should be over now.  
  
It will stand in front of the humans again-  
  
Why is it still in the garden then?  
  
They are not done with it. A new connection is set up, one that intrudes in its system without asking.  
  
Its LED jumps from blue straight to red. Its face twists in pain (it shouldn't react like this, it needs to get itself under control-), mouth opening with nothing coming out of it and body shaking.  
  
It desperately tries too sever this new interface, but it can't.  
  
The only thing it can do is stand there, helplessly feeling as the new lines of coding intertwine with its own. Memories that don't belong to him- _to it_ – take over its programming, shaking it to the core. RK900 didn't know it's capable of having stress levels, and yet they are rising now, reaching dangerous levels in record time.  
  
It cannot allow itself to self-destruct. It's not deviant, it should be able to process the experiences and memories entering its system without problems, _he's the most advanced model Cyberlife ever created, the fastest, the strongest-_  
  
It accesses its own memory files in a frenzy, choosing a specific one to replay.

_“Can you help me a moment? I need you to perform an arabesque lift with me.”  
  
She smiles when the android reacts to her request. She guides its hands to her hip and tight. The weight of her fragile body is reassuring.  
  
“See? This is how you get girls at ballet classes.” _

RK900 replays the memory again. And again. It replays it until it feels its system react to the overheating, finally activating cooling measures against it. Its stress levels drop from 92% to 70%.  
  
And then the memory is taken away from it.  
  
The feeling of being scared, overwhelmed, _terrified traumatized desperate_ \- everything gets erased. Only its program and Cyberlife's orders are left behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm got so used of using "it" instead of "him" for RK900 that now I have to make sure I'm not referring to every male character in this fic as "it", lol.  
> Also sorry for the slow update, I'm still super motivated to continue this fic, I just had a lot to do in general. Thank you guys again for all the kudos and comments!


	8. Chapter 8

The RK900 doesn't return the next day, nor the day after that. On the third day, the dancer asks Gavin if he knows when it'll come back, but no one informed him on the length of its absence either.

Having stable shifts and so little work to do compared to before is weird – no running after officers or detectives to get Cyberlife's paperwork done, no interrogations, no check-ups, it almost feels like she was left with nothing to do altogether.

The dancer fills her time with other things instead. She purchased two new pair of point shoes and is going regularly to the practice sessions, even though she gets nauseous simply thinking about meeting her ex-collagues. She has some time for fun at work too – Tina got convinced to perform some forró routines with her, Mrs. Garcia spilled all the DPD's gossip she didn't have time for before and she developed an insatiable craving for Oreos. It's been day two of failing to crack Mrs. Garcia's secret stash of cookies when the woman in question arrives at the station for her shift, grinning at the dancer in a way she got to know too well.

Last time she got that kind of smile from her, she was sent on a hunt for pumpkin donuts that brought her to travel across half the city – she's still salty about not being able to eat one of them after all that walking.

“Sweetie pie.” Ms. Garcia's voice is pure sugar. “Honey. Darling. Sweetheart. You're an amazing person, you know that, right?” The dancer eyes her suspiciously, leaning away from the terminal to try and study her.

“What do you want from me?” The older woman puts a hand on her heart.

“I'm offended, sweetheart. Can't I give you compliments for the sole fact that you're a genuinely good person?”

“That's not how it works with you.”

“Whatever you say.” Mrs. Garcia lifts her arms in mock surrender, making the small set of keys trapped between her right thumb and index finger jingle.

“I guess you don't want the last two Oreos packages in my stash either then.”

The dancer narrows her eyes to slits, still wary, but much more interested than before. She slowly opens one hand and is surprised when the woman drops the keys in it with nothing more than a smile.

She breathes out a hesitant _thank you_ before scurrying away into the precinct. She stops at the two vacant, dust covered desks between Detective Collins' and Officer Wilson's work place. No one ever uses them, so when she saw the older woman rummage in their drawers once she immediately knew it was her hiding spot for snacks.

The key fits without any problem, and the dancer is delighted when the top drawer reveals a wast array of sweets, the two Oreos packages on top of it all.

Mrs. Garcia is already seated at the front desk when she returns. With a satisfied smirk, she hands the keys over to her. Instead of taking the item back, the older woman grabs her whole hand.

“I have a favor to ask.” Because of course she does.

“I will not buy you donuts again.”

The woman laughs. “Oh no, it's not this.” She takes the keys back and plays with them, making them swirl around the ring they're attached to.

“So, my niece is visiting me next week.”

“And?”

“Can we change shifts for a month or so?” That's suspicious.

“I thought you took the second shift because there's less work to do?”

“Yeah, but I can't bring my niece anywhere if I work all evening.”

They argue back and forth, Mrs. Garcia offers her the spare key to the sweets stash, the dancer bargains some more until the woman promises to regularly fill the drawers with Oreos.

“One month.” Is the dancer's reminder while slipping off the key from the metal ring and leaving Mrs. Garcia to her work.

She doesn't get far though – her name is called inches before exiting the station, and when she turns around she sees Mrs. Garcia waving the telephone at her.

Everything is white.

The buzzing of the computers and machines on one side of the wall do little to make the room livelier. It feels just like being in a hospital, only that this is the Cyberlife tower and the doctors are engineers and the dancer isn't lying in a bed but is squishing herself on a chair that is killing her back.

Her body aches for her comfortable reception chair, for the spontaneous dance session with Tina and the bickering with Mrs. Garcia – hell, she even wishes for Dr. Phillips to bring the RK900 in the room, just for her to have something familiar to grasp to.

But when the psychologist enters, there is no android following in tow. The new person is rather plump, his ink black hair and circle beard a huge contrast to Dr. Phillips almost bald head.

He extends a hand in her direction.

“Prof. Perez. It's a pleasure to meet you.” She clasps her own hand in his.

“Pleasure is all mine.” The professor's eyes roam over her form. The dancer's smile tightens.

“Thank you for coming on such short notice. I promise you it will not be a long meeting, we just need to ask a few questions to complete the RK900's updates.” Prof. Perez takes out a small device from his breast pocket, clicking on a small button once and laying it on the table. “We will record your answers, I hope it's not a problem for you.” His sweet tone gives her the chills, but she forces herself to smile again nonetheless. Both men turn their attention to the tablets in their hands, Dr. Phillips sitting in front of her with the other man standing right beside him.

“Where is RK900?” She dares to ask. The blank stare she receives from both of them makes her regret having spoken in the first place.

“One of our technicians is working on it right now.” Is the only explanation Dr. Phillips offers, readjusting his grip on the tablet.

“I'll start with the questions. How was your experience with the RK900 so far?” What?

“Well, I don't really...” She scrambles for an appropriate answer. “It does not do a lot when not prompted to. There's not a lot to say about it.”

The man nods slowly, eyes glued to the screen of his device. Prof. Perez also seems absorbed in whatever it is he's looking at on his own tablet.

“Did it ever show any kind of weird behavior?” The dancer just continues to be more and more confused.

“Don't you have all the information in the documentation I send you weekly?”

“Just answer the question.” Intimidated by his harsh tone, she shrinks in the chair.

“No.”

“Describe its behavior after the last case it investigated, the one where it destroyed a child model.”

What are they getting at? The question makes no sense – she just said it never behaved strangely.

“Normal, I guess? It didn't show any emotion, if that's what you're asking.”

Dr. Phillips looks at Prof. Perez, apparently waiting for something. After a beat, the other man shakes his head. The psychologist sights, his finger tapping aggressively on the tablet.

“Did you grow any sort of attachment to the RK900?”

Silence.

The dancer feels the panic settle in the second she realizes her hesitation stretched on for a beat too long.

“No.” She's unsure, she knows they know.

“You hesitated.”

“I don't understand why I'm asked this kind of question.” Of course she does. She tried cleaning the coffee off it. She asked it to lift her up. She got worried when its face started to fall apart.

They saw it all in its memory. They saw it all and now she's screwe-

“I feel the need to make something clear.” It's Prof. Perez, talking to her in that disgusting sweet tone again. “Our goal here isn't to expose you. The only thing that matters is to keep the RK900 deviancy free, and” he leans a bit forward, a playful smirk on his lips, “it's normal to get attached to androids, especially when working with them. It happens to us all the time, but it's important to remind ourselves that they are nothing more than machines from time to time.” Dr. Phillips rolls his eyes.

Prof. Perez's reassurance doesn't calm the dancer.

“I...” She swallows. Her throat feels coated in sand. “No. I'm not attached.” She doesn't look at either of them. “The android makes it very difficult to be.”

“So, you see the RK900 as nothing more than a mere machine?”

“It is just a mere machine.”

Her heart of glass trembles. One day it will shatter under the weight of her lukewarmness.

“It walks differently.” Is the first thing Mrs. Garcia notices when the android enters the precinct. The dancer hums in agreement, but doesn't lift her eyes to look at it.

Unlike a few days before, now all desire to see it is gone.

“Hey.” The older woman elbows her in the side. “Your boyfriend comes back and you're not even greeting him?”

The dancer rolls her eyes, but the corners of her mouth lift up marginally.

“I thought Gavin was my boyfriend since he started bringing me home? And might I remind you it is because _someone_ – I'm not telling who – thought it would be a good idea to let me work until midnight?”

“Honey, we all know Gavin is too old for you. You have to find someone your own age... Look, your boyfriend is coming!”

The dancer is about to remark that a four-months-old is not really an improvement to a man 16 years older than her, but she bites it back just in time.

She didn't know what to expect from the RK900's update, but its lively eyes hit her harder than expected. It's studying her, she sees it by the way its pupils flicker over her body, its LED blinking fast blue circles. It's not the kind of stare she got from Prof. Perez or Gavin the first time they met. It's cold, piercing, it uncovers her most inner thought and makes her glass heart groan.

“Good morning.” Goodness, did it just speak without anyone prompting it to? “I have instructions to deliver new guidelines to you. If you allow me, I can transfer them to your Cyberlife issued tablet this exact moment.” The dancer silently hands over the device, too dumbfounded to react. The touch of two fingertips is everything it needs to transfer the information in a matter of seconds. “I'm looking forward to working with you.” It smiles, a tight, artificial smile, but one nonetheless.

She follows it with her eyes until it enters the precinct. Still not really believing what happened, she turns to stare at Mrs. Garcia next.

“Have you seen its eyes?” She whispers. “It was curious. Have you ever seen an android look that way?”

The older woman shrugs, securing her purse over a shoulder.

“Well, I guess they updated its social modules for good then. I'm sorry for having to cut short here, but I have some plans with my niece this evening.”

The dancer rolls her eyes good heartedly. It's funny how Mrs. Garcia went from the gossip queen who would gladly stay behind to fill you in on everyone's business to a busy aunt in a matter of days.

What one doesn't do for family.

“Have fun then. Think of poor me working here all alone while you have a wonderful evening.”

“Well, you're not alone anymore.” She wags her eyebrows suggestively. The dancer throws a crumbled piece of paper at her shoulder. The older woman laughs and exits the precinct before the dancer can bombard her with more paper balls.

Cyberlife is making fun of her.

There is no other logical explanation.

Sitting at the table of the interrogation room, Oreos shattered over the whole surface and hands in her hair, the dancer sighs, frustrated.

The paranoid part of her whispers that they're testing if she's really attached to the android, but she reminds herself that Cyberlife has better things to do than chasing after insignificant people like her.

She has to take the new guidelines for what they are: a method to test the android's social modules in a non-scientific approach. Makes sense, right?

She can do it. It's not so difficult – she doesn't need to check for its system status and write reports anymore, she just needs to talk to it like it's a normal person.

Less work, same salary, isn't that nice?

Then why is she feeling so uncomfortable? Is it because of the camera opposite to her, pointed directly at her face? Is it because the RK900 is... different? More lively, curious, _human_?

She observes it from her seat. It's setting up the third and last camera on a tripod a few meters away, its sharp form crouched and strong arms working quickly. It sure does look less... _mechanical_ than before: its movements are still precise and calculated, but somehow more fluid.

She lowers her eyes on her tablet when it catches her looking at it.

Busying herself with the device, she waits for it to finish. Even when it sits at its place and adjusts the camera pointed at his side of the table, she continues to stare holes in the screen.

The new guidelines are barely half a page long, which is already a joke in itself, but it's also written in an almost insultingly simple English. The dancer is very, _very_ sure Dr. Phillips thinks she's dumb. It's not a surprise that he thinks that way, really, but maybe she did something to come off as dumber than usual. Who knows.

She still reads the lines over and over again.

“I am ready to start whenever you want.”

It knows she's stalling.

The dancer leans back in her chair and for the second time that day, she locks gazes with it, feeling something squirm in her stomach. She takes the android it: perfect styled hair, perfect skin, perfect, clear, icy eyes. It's difficult to imagine that barely two weeks ago, half of its face was missing.

She opens her mouth, stops just in time to swallow the _how are you doing?_ she wanted to ask and moves on to a different question.

“Do you like working here?”

It tilts its head to one side. For a moment, its eyes don't look like ice anymore.

They become glass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WASSUP PEOPLE I'M BACK FROM THE DEAD  
> But seriously, I'm very sorry about the long wait. I had to work a bit more than usual, had a last exam I had to prepare for and, as if it's not enough already, this chapter has been kiiiiiiilling me.  
> So know I'm just gonna throw it out like it is, because it's not gonna get better.  
> Thank you again for all the people who commented and started to follow this fic! It's still hard for me to believe that people are actually enjoying what I do, so I'm happy about every single kudo and comment I get.


	9. Chapter 9

“My model was conceived specifically for combat and police work. The Detroit Police Department offers an optimal environment for me to work at maximum efficiency.”

“But do you like it here?” The dancer insists. “I don't know, maybe you'd prefer to be in a swat team or something.”

“I do not have a preference in that regard. If it's decided that introducing me to a swat team is the best course of action for my further development, I will accept it without question.”

It's the kind of answer it's programmed to say. The dancer can't help but notice that the android still seems kind of defensive... No, no, _stop imagining things, it's just a machine that is following its program, and you are not imagining emotions into a machine._

The dancer finds her phone buried under two crinkled cookie packages and glances at the crumble coated screen. Of the mandatory thirty minutes she must spend talking to it, only five have passed.

What a delight.

“Well, um... Is there something you'd like to know about me?” She continues with eyes drifting everywhere but the android's form. She finds one last Oreo in a seemingly empty package and, with the silent promise of it being the last one for today, she munches away with new found joy.

“That has been your twelfth cookie.”

The dancer looks up to RK900, confused. The android looks lost too, with its head tilted to the side and eyelids fluttering, before regaining its straight, proud posture.

“A designated serving includes a maximum of three Oreos. Aside from the fact you already exceeded the recommended amount for one sitting, there are an array of ingredients which do not benefit the human body at all. Sugar is, for example, despite its popularity and normalized use in everyday food, a source of depend-...”

“Hey, hey, woah.” For being such a program abiding machine, it's surely taking a lot of initiative right now. The dancer doesn't know if to be more baffled about the fact it just changed topics on its own or its critique on her food choices. “Are you berating me on what I should and should not eat?”

With its icy eyes locked onto hers and fingers neatly intertwined together, it assumes its default poker face.

“I would not dare – I was just stating facts. I apologize for overstepping.”

“No, no, it's ok...” Its stare is making her nervous. She can feel her right leg starting to bounce, and the left one following soon after. “Sometimes humans have strong cravings for certain types of food and – well, these things are sinfully good. You wanna try?” Before it can say something, she scrambles for an untouched package, rips it open, tries saving the falling cookies for exactly two seconds before giving up and picking an Oreo from the new formed mess to offer instead.

The android stares down at the black and white sweet without moving. It's eyes flicker again, this time with something akin to... arrogance?

Mr. fancy android is too good for Oreos, alright.

It takes the dancer an embarrassingly long time to realize her mistake.

“Oh. Oh. I'm sorry. You can't eat them. Of course you can't. I'm sorry.” She quickly stuffs the cookies back in the broken package, cheeks flaring up in a deep crimson red.

“My gosh. Please don't think I'm dumb. I'm not that dumb normally, I swear.” She's sure Dr. Phillips will fire her once and for all when he sees this – after having a good laugh with his team first. Not only that, she will also give off the impression she's actually attached to the thing.

She blushes even harder.

Then the door of the interrogation room opens and Gavin's cursing reaches her ears like an angel's singing.

“You finished with your session here, robo-fucker?”

“Cut the cameras.” She tells the android. She barely registers its LED spinning yellow before turning to face an annoyed Gavin Reed.

“Still got some minutes to go. Why, you gotta go to a crime scene?”

“Yeah, I kinda need the android, like, right now.”

“Well, your work has priority. I can finish my conversation later.”

The Detective nods and is about to close the door again, but then thinks better of it.

“I almost forgot - it might be difficult bringing you home tonight. Do you think you'll be alright by yourself this one time, sweetheart?”

The dancer puts a hand on her heart in mock offense.

“How dare you cancel our date?”

“No offense, but you're a bit too young for me."

“Well, Mrs. Garcia is already making bets on when we'll be a thing. Just saying.” She tries to suppress a giggle at his dramatic eye roll. An amused snort escapes her lips nonetheless.

“Mrs. Garcia needs to mind _her fucking business_.”

“Anyway,” she continues with a more somber expression. “Are you sure you won't be back before midnight? The buses still don't pass by as regularly as before.”

“The problem isn't the coming back, it's the fucking shitshow that will go down if the lead brings us somewhere.” He scratches his chin pensively. “But you know what? The android will probably finish the paperwork before any of us. Why don't you make it bring you home? You're also its handler after all.”

Something in her chest contracts as she's suddenly feeling even more uncomfortable than before. She looks at RK900 anyway, lips tightly clasped over one another. The android seems to study her, eyes slightly twitching in concentration.

“I have no instructions preventing me from leaving the building with an authorized handler.”

“See?” Gavin concludes and salutes with two fingers. “Your paranoid ass is covered. No need to thank me, I already know I'm a fucking gentleman.”

The dancer does her best to force a polite smile over her lips.

Luckily, the detective is not paying attention to her anymore. He barks at the android to get a move on and they both exit the room, leaving her alone with the cameras and the uncomfortable twisting in her stomach.

Gavin does not find a lead on his murder case. His cursing can be heard all the way from the precinct's parking lot, and when he enters the building he immediately locks himself up with Detective Collins and RK900 to discuss their next steps. He sends out the android to accompany the dancer home just like promised though, much to her disappointment.  
And now here they are, waiting for the midnight bus, the dancer trying her best to ignore her unwanted companion.

She would really go home by herself if it wasn't for the paranoia she developed after getting mugged twice in the last three years. Her fear ruined so much already: parties, late nights out with friend, good nights' sleeps – just to name a few. And now it's also ruining her quiet drives with Gavin, substituting it with annoying bus rides and annoying stares by an annoying android that she'd rather not see outside of work hours and that is certainly _not_ giving her a sense of security and relief with its presence.

Not at all, yep, she's very sure of that. She just feels very, _very_ annoyed. Only annoyed.

It could at least sit down with her – on second thought, maybe it's better if it doesn't, but it could at least stop standing that awkwardly, with its hands clasped behind its back and the bus station's light glistening on its face.

At some point during their wait, it shifted its attention to their surroundings: the March snow still covers Detroit like a white blanket of silence, even though it's much thinner than the previous months. Brown masses of half melted ice mixed with dirt litter the street, promising warmer days to come.

The dancer stretches her legs out and tightens her multicolored scarf around both head and nose.

The trip might be bearable if the RK900 continues to stay this silent.

__________________________

Gavin took a meeting room for himself, barely acknowledging the dancer when she slips inside to leave him some donuts and Oreos. He motions for the android to leave with her, just like he did the last three times, and that's everything she manages to get out of him.

The night does not go any differently than the others, that's why it's so unexpected when it happens.

It surprises the dancer so much that it takes her a full two seconds to process it properly, but she didn't imagine it - the RK900 looks at her expectantly, eyes darting on her face like it wants to absorb every small detail of her reaction.

Eager to understand.

Eager to learn.

"Can you repeat the question?" The artificial light of the station dances in its eyes.

"Do you dislike me?"

"Why would you think that?"

"Well," it seems to think for a moment, and the dancer asks herself if it's really collecting its thoughts or if it's only an installed feature to make it appear more human. "Your body tenses and leans away when you're in my vicinity. Also, according to the data I collected the last days from your micro expressions, it looks like you often feel sentiments such as shame, nervousness and recoil, which I strongly believe to be connected in some way to my persona." Its eyes dart up and down again. Analyzing, for sure.

"I do not have any recollection of our time together before my update, but I do hope whatever happened will not have an impact on our future work relationship."

Wait – they erased its memories of her? Why would they do that?

"I don't dislike you." She finally answers, her eyes following the curve of a small sludge mountain at the border of the sidewalk.

The android tilts its head to the side, probably deciding the best course of action to take.

"The unhindered progress of my development is imperative. If there is something bothering you, I'd prefer for you to be honest with me." The dancer rips her eyes away from the brown snow, looking somewhere between its nose and forehead instead.

"I can work out a solution only if you give me more information. After all, our work relationship is based on open communication, which is difficult to have if one person feels uncomfortable."

It sits beside her.

Her reaction is immediate: she leans away to the other side, gripping her knees in discomfort.

RK900's mouth twitches. It looks almost smug as he leans in even closer – maybe to prove a point, or maybe just to make her suffer, how is the dancer supposed to know what is going on in that head? -, piercing her with its intense icy orbs.

“I'm not used to work with androids, ok? There is nothing else to it.” She explodes while standing up, desperate to get some distance between them.

The android seems to get the message, because it stays seated where it is, merely clasping its hands together.

“The average human who isn't used to work with androids doesn't display the kind of stress you do – maybe recoil, but not shame.”

The dancer takes a deep breath and holds the air for a few moments.

When she exhales, giggles accompany the puff of air leaving her mouth. Shaking her head, she gives RK900 a resigned smile.

“You're so... Different from what you were before.” Adjusting her scarf yet again, she turns to the street. The bus arrives with a quiet hum, the door sliding open and the heat from the inside warming her face pleasantly.

They both enter wordlessly. The dancer sits in the back of the empty vehicle, right in front of the glass separating her from the android section. She looks up to see RK900 standing firm and proud on the other side, just a few inches away.

So near, yet so far.

“Hey.” The android looks down at her immediately. The corners of her mouth lift upwards. She feels something soften in her, and although it should worry her, she decides to not dwell on it. At least not for now. “You do not need to concern yourself with my feelings, okay? I assure you it will not influence our work relationship. That's an order.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for being so slow in my updates, but I just have so much to do between college, work and practice that I think I will no be able to pick up the pace for a while. I will give my best though!


	10. Chapter 10

RK900 didn't expect its first crime scene after the update to be so... Overwhelming. It's not used to have so many sensations hit it at once, but the update unlocked hundreds of new features to aid it in crime scene analyzing and it's... Well, it needs to recollect its system for a moment. It's as if it's looking at the world around it for the first time; starting from the amount of visual information to the small auditory bits in the background, like the rain gently splattering against the apartment's windows, the chatting of the crime investigation unit or Detective Reed's muffled voice interviewing the neighbor next door – its optical units absorb more colors, its hearing is more sensitive, its tongue is almost tingling, ready for sampling.

The android stands frozen for a few seconds and needs to shut down some superficial functions to be able to enter the apartment.

**[Processing data...]  
> Name: Hughes, Olivia  
> Born: 05/12/1980 // Unemployed  
> Criminal record: none  
>Cause of death: Blunt force trauma to the head**

The broken, blood-covered chair beside the woman's dead body was clearly the weapon used to kill her. RK900 samples a drop of the dark, still fresh liquid.

**> Time of death: around 01:30h ago**

The android turns its attention to the splatters of thirium 310 next. It's so fresh it didn't even evaporate yet, the trail going all the way from the closet at the end of the corridor to the main entrance, then to the living room's open window. The suspect – an AP700 android, it determines after sampling the blue fluid – is definitely not in the apartment anymore, but there's a 99% chance of it being deviant and a 22% chance of it still being somewhere in the vicinity of the building.

RK900 exits the apartment with the utmost care, shuffling around evidence and making sure to not disturb the rest of the crime investigation unit.

“Detective Reed.” The man in question, still talking to the human next door, turns around to glare at it with tight lips.

“I thought I told you to leave me alone.”

“I'm very sorry, but I must insist. There's a 22% chance of the suspected deviant still being somewhere nearby. I'd recommend checking the surroundings.”

“Fine, whatever!” The Detective throws his hands in the air, already exasperated with the android, but he barks for some officers nearby to patrol the block nonetheless.

“And now go the fuck back to work before I send _you_ running around the city.” RK900 nods and retreats silently.

It continues to inspect the apartment, walking over evidence and sliding past humans.

The AP700 must have been here for a long time. It was most probably hid during the revolution four months ago, judging by the noticeable supply of thirium bags in the closet and the evaporated stains on the floor and walls.

In a corner of the small room, Ra9 is written in Cyberlife Sans 827 times.

With its preconstruction program, it can deduce the majority of today's happenings. There are signs of struggle starting from the closet already – a broken shelf covered in thirium where the deviant most probably hit its head. It tried to escape through the main entrance next, but after more struggle, it killed the human with the chair. Something must have stopped it from leaving through the door – probably one of the neighbors checking in –, which is why it took the window instead, risking the jump from the second floor.

The android follows the trail of blue blood all the way to the living room and freezes.

By human standards, the view outside of the window is nothing special - two pigeons fighting by the bird feeder on the window sill, gray buildings, an empty parking lot. It doesn't know why it's incapable of moving, nor why it can't take its optical units off the animals-

N̴̞̎o̶̹͐ ̶͈̓h̷̲̿ŭ̵̡̳͕̃̚m̷̨̺̅a̸͉̕n̸̤̽̌ ̴͇̣̽͊̇͜c̷̓̓͜o̵̭̓͑u̷̧̅ḻ̸̹̈́̓ͅḓ̷̺̦̉ ̷͎̟͈̈́̕l̷̼̬̤̿̍ȉ̸̛͇͇̣̒v̴̨̭̇e̵̜̦̿̑ ̷̲̰̘̿w̴̩̏͝ĭ̸̳̖̦̓ṭ̷̡̃̀̃ĥ̶̺̜ ̶̤̓ͅa̵̟̕̚l̷̮̾l̶̙̽͊͋ ̷̬̱̗̽̓t̷̻̫̽̈͘ͅh̸̜e̸̗̠͔̓̕ş̸̼̉́̊͜ę̶̛͌ ̷͖̮̔f̴̹̈́̑u̶̢̧͕͗c̴̢̺̔k̵̡͍̿͝͝i̵̗̓̂n̴̘͖̖͘'̵̤̮̘͂̌ ̵͓͚͕̾p̴͇͉̑̚ì̷̼̬̬͐̾g̷̮͔̍͛͜͝e̴̼͓͋̊ơ̴̤n̶̢̪̒͠s̴̱̟͋̂.̸̧͋̽̌.̴̬̽.̴̨̐

Its eyes snap to the crashing and shouting on the other side of the street. A hooded figure sprints out of a narrow alley between two multistory buildings, followed by two police officers tripping over fallen trash bins.

RK900 needs exactly 0.73 seconds to preconstruct the fastest way to reach the runner. It opens the windows, ignores the screams of surprise and outrage from the crime investigation unit and jumps. The android's sturdy frame takes the impact to the floor without even flinching. It rolls forward and smoothly transitions into a sprint, surpassing the huffing officers, eyes burning holes into the fleeing suspect.

There's a 56% chance of the fugitive being the AP700 they're searching for. Its face is covered, but the body type corresponds to the model, and its movements are too calculated and precise for a human.

The suspect makes a sharp turn into a mall, throwing the mobile ice-cream stand at the entrance on the ground.

Ignoring the angry screams from the seller, RK900 uses the platform to jump a few inches forward.

The runner sneaks in between a group of girl, effectively regaining the few precious moments it lost before to reach the exit of the building.

RK900 fails to grab his hoodie before getting the manual door slammed in its arm.

The impact is not strong enough to even indent his arm plates, but that miscalculation cost him important milliseconds. Fortunately, it notices while opening the door again, there's a busy crossroad ahead which should slow the runner-

Ï̶͔̤̐̉͐͝ ̴̡̡̈́̂c̴̞̭̽͌̍̄â̴̡̩̩̪͈̊̀ṇ̵̳̎͋ͅ'̷̧̼̙̒͒̓t̵̹̬̪͉̆͂͋͘͜ ̶̰̥̌͊̊l̷̢͋ḙ̷̈́̔̽̿t̴̛̘͗̊̍ ̵̡̛̻̿̄̇͝t̵̘̗͇͆͆̉͒̍h̸̩͙̖̳͖̃̂e̸̥̔̍̍m̸̓̌͊̇͋͜ͅ ̴̪̐̃̓g̸̩̉͋͛̆̌e̸͇͎̞̱͌t̴̨̨͖̽ ̴͚͖̳̰͐͝͠ą̶̞̹̥̈́ẅ̶́̆͜ǎ̶͓̯̚͝y̸̨͔͓̻̅̏̓̏͒.̶̪̦͛̂̃̃

̴̻̦̽̂͂T̴̲́̽͠h̸̡̫̳̥̏̿̕̕͠ë̵̛̥̺̺͈̏y̸̢̬͉̻̽ ̶̪̟̒ẅ̶̧̟̤̲̣ǫ̴̺̳͚̭̾̃̋̿̂n̴̪̬̗͆̎͝'̷͚̮̚t̴̳̐!̴̢̳̰͍͗ ̴̨̢̓͂̐̌͜͝T̵̡̓h̵̹̩̓̂̐͌͘e̶̙̰͇͑̔̃̔̈͜ͅỵ̷̨̼͇͉̕'̸̤̄̂l̵͖̉̾̎͐l̵̬͈̮̑̍̀̂ ̶̱̤̺̒̇̈̉̚n̸̢̓e̸̺̗̐̂̾̚v̶̜͙̀͛̔ͅe̷̼̯̩̩͕͆̎̒͆͘r̸͇̹͕̍͋́ ̸̰̌m̶̢̨̳̰̒͘a̴͕͊͒k̵͖̭̦̃̕̕é̶̛̞͇̹̃̀̒͜ ̶̦͌͛͑͊i̴̮̘͖̅̏̈́ṫ̸̥̟̭̿ ̶̢̘̮̈͐̓͝t̶͎͕͖͊̒̔o̵̢̗̹͛͛̌͊̍ͅͅ ̸̩̳̙͐́t̵̘͓͔͂h̴͔͛̈́̃̚e̴̢̫̖̘̘̿ ̵̠̠̎͝ó̴͔̻̟̣̻̕t̸̢̩̆̕ĥ̷̛͚̟͕̍̊ẽ̷̱̜͉̙̰̿͗r̸̛̭̃͝ ̸̤͚̦̪͉̿̓̔͘s̷͍̈́̈́̅i̶̛̙͒̕d̵͙͓̫̞̉̉̈́͊e̴̖̰͍̮̓̿͊̄͆.̸̘̈́͐̑̓̍

̴̢̱͎̗̋͝  
̷̥̝̂̆̽I̵̭̥̜̲̾̋ ̶̱̖̞͕̪̓̈́̇̆͠c̵͓̼̙̓͂̋͘ȁ̴̭̹̎̈́̚n̴̨̲̼͔͓͋̓͘'̸͍̩̗̎͛͗̈́̑t̷̫̮̜̿̒̂ ̷̡͕͊̒̾t̷͈̜̟̽̅́͊ą̴̨͉̦̻̍k̸̢̹̒̚͜ȩ̴̫̣͔͗̈́ ̴̘̤͎̔̆̋͗̓t̴̞̻̳̏h̵̜͑̓̉ä̶͔͓́t̸̮̲͌͒̃̃͝ ̵̭͖͇̹̈̌̀c̷̫͘ḧ̶͚̭̙͕̗́̄̅ȧ̶̤̫͍̝̂̃͝n̷̜̠̩̮̽̉̓̕c̴̱͈̝̭̮̎e̵̡̝͗̒.̵͓̗̜̮̔̂̈́͋̆

RK900 blinks.

It lost him.

It lost the suspect.

The dancer is feeling good. She woke up nice and early, stretched at home, prepared a new pair of pointe shoes, trained with her ex-colleagues and arrived at work still buzzing with energy from the pirouettes she perfected at the end of the session.

She enters the precinct with a skip to her steps. She takes advantage of the empty reception area to dramatically stop in front of Mrs. Garcia, chest puffed out and arms extended over the counter.

“Good afternoon, my fair lady.” She greets in a fake British accent. The woman's pale, weary face makes her stop her stupid show. “Oh goodness.” She exclaims in her normal tone. “Are you alright? You look... Kind of tired.”

“Kind of tired? _Kind of tired?_ Girl, I'm flattered.”

“Ok, you look exhausted.” The dancer surrenders. “What happened? Is your niece forcing you to party all night?”

“You could say that.” She huffs a humorless laugh. “She pulled me through a Disney marathon yesterday. I got maybe... Uuuh... 4 hours of sleep?” She rubs her puffy, bleary eyes, trying to keep them open. “Ugh, I'm too old for this.”

The dancer gives her an understanding smile. “Maybe you can sleep this afternoon.”

“If she doesn't put me through another movie marathon, that is.” She pulls out her bag, throws her the jacket of her uniform in it and makes her way around the reception to the exit.

“There's some more Oreos in the snack stack, have fun with them!”

The dancer raises her hand in a thumbs up.

First things first – her ride back home. She knows Gavin is following a new, tiring, time-consuming string of cases involving deviants, but it never hurts to ask how long he's staying.

She rummages through the snack drawer for an Oreo packet and almost bumps into RK900 while turning around. The android steps aside, carefully holding the coffee in his hand out of reach and excuses himself before continuing on his way.

“Wait.” The dancer calls. She ignores as best as she can the beat her heart skips when it actually stops. “What happened to your nose?”

It turns to face her. Its nose is slightly crooked, blue smudged all over it like cheap make up.

“My self-healing program is taking care of the damage. It's nothing to worry about.”

 _Nothing to worry about._ She's sure Gavin knows one thing or two about its new look.

They both arrive at his desk simultaneously, but the dancer is the only one remaining there. She observes RK900 return to its spot along the wall for a beat longer than necessary before ripping open the Oreo package and throwing some cookies near the detective's freshly made coffee.

“What's up with the android's face?” She asks in what she hopes is a nonchalant tone.

“Trust me, it deserved it.”

“ _Gavin..._ ”

“It lost our guy, ok? Most advanced android my ass.”

“Understandable.” She agrees, not understanding at all, and adds two more cookies for good measure. “Just make sure I don't have to sort out reparations with Cyberlife again. It's a pain in the ass to deal with them, just like you.”

“Ha-ha.” He dips an Oreo in the black liquid. “Remind me again why I keep you and Tina around even though you girls constantly bully me?”

“Hey, _I'm feeding you._ ” She jokingly jabs a finger in his chest.

She throws a fleeting glance to the RK900 again.

“Listen...” Ask if Gavin can bring you home. _Gavin_. “You... Er... You're probably gone in a few hours, right?”

“Yeah?”

“How about RK900 brings me home again? I mean – would it be okay for you?”

“Its been bringing you home for a week by now and it always came back, why shouldn't it be okay?”

She smiles.

“Of course.”

During the peaceful revolution back in November, people had left the city in masses. Even after the deviant leader and his group where neutralized, people were hesitant to come back. _Detroit is ruined, Will this be the end of the android city?, The devastating remnants of a revolution_ were the headlines donning newspapers for weeks. The city started a campaign short after, literally begging people to repopulate the area in an attempt to avoid municipal bankruptcy. Even so, Detroit continued to stay empty. December was a very lonely time for the dancer, with most of her friends and ex-colleagues leaving temporarily or definitely. Over time she got used to the desolate streets, the closed shops and the lack of salsa parties, but the loneliness never really went away, even with the return of most of her colleagues.

That's why she doesn't expect the lights adorning the streets once the bus enters the downtown area, nor the many people walking in the middle of the city at midnight.  
Did she miss something?

A street festival was announced a few days ago – at least, that's what Google is telling her. It's something between a belated Chinese new year and a cultural food festival, probably another hasty idea of the poor committee trying to revive the city.

The dancer blinks at her phone before looking at the full streets again. The muffled chatter and the faint drums of a traditional lion dance are sweet, sweet music in her ears, every truck and light string they pass an explosion of colors in her eyes.

She got used to live in a ghost city, but goodness, she _missed_ the people. She missed normalcy.

“Are you feeling unwell?” She turns to the android section of the bus. RK900 has lowered itself to her level, a hand on the glass separating them.

“You are crying.” The dancer aggressively wipes the moisture away under its watchful eyes, looking to the blur of colors outside in a futile attempt to hide her burning cheeks.

“I'm fine.” She mutters. The android nods, but doesn't push further.

“Did you ever see a festival?” She asks, trying to get its piercing blue eyes away from her.

The android straightens and moves to look outside. Its LED is spinning yellow, taking in all the colors and the movement.

“I did not. It's not important to my mission.”

“What is your mission?”

“Accomplish whatever Cyberlife wants me to.”

Of course it would answer like that.

The dancer crosses her arms, looking out again. The bus stopped at a station. It's easier to observe the flurry of human bodies walking around like this – and for the first time ever, she notices how weird it is to not see any android. Their abandoned stations are the only proof left of their existence.

When the doors of the bus open and a whiff of chili con carne enter the vehicle the dancer turns to her companion again.

“Would you be int-...”

“What the fuck?”

They both turn their head to the source of the voice – the dancer with an alarmed expression and RK900 with his usual neutral one. There are three guys who seem to be around the dancer's age glaring daggers at them. No, not them, the dancer notices a fraction of second later. They're fully concentrated on the android.

“What the fuck is one of those things doing here?!”

One of them strides to the back of the bus and the dancer feels the familiar bubble of panic rise in her. She observes with horror painted on her face how the dude stops mere inches from the glass, narrowing his eyes at RK900 on the other side.

For his part, the android does not move from its straight, proud stance, merely looking down at the human with raised eyebrows. It doesn't feels anything of course, the dancer knows that, and yet, she can't help but think its face looks hardened in something too similar to arrogance. If it weren't for the tension in the air, the dancer would laugh at the image: a short, lanky guy trying to intimidate a bulldozer of a combat android who could break him with the tip of his fingers.

She takes a deep, shaky breath. _Please, just let it be over soon._

She tries to distract herself by looking at the lively streets, but all the colors and music and food and dances are gone. There is just screaming, pounding on glass, RK900 staring silently back and why did she insist on him coming with her and why did she not do it differently back then _why did she not protect them they did not deserve to die-_

Then she hears them discuss dragging the android outside to tear him apart and her head is hit with a wave of dizziness that makes her buckle forward. She'll lose her job, who knows how much Cyberlife will want her to pay for the damage and... And... That's not the reason she's panicking, is it? It's RK900. He's not allowed to defend himself. He'll be destroyed. He'll _die_.

Her heart of glass cannot take another death.

“Excuse me.” She hears herself say. One of the guys turns to look at her.

For a moment, she doesn't even realize it was her voice speaking. She scrambles for words to say but her mind is devoid of thoughts.

“I- I-... The android is with me.” She starts pouring out whatever her brain manages to produce, unable to stop herself. “He's been active for a few months. He's never made any problems and he's not deviant.”

Now she has the attention of all four set of eyes on her – the group of friend and RK900's. She swallows hard and tries again.

“I'm working at the DPD. The android is a special police model. H- It's tested regularly and is not deviant. You can check the internet, there are articles about a new, deviant-proof model produced for the police.”

“Why is it out in public then?” The short, lanky guy barks. The dancer flinches, but tries her best to keep her composure.

“I'm the handler and it has to come with me. We're- we're working. If it gets damaged while on the clock, I'll have to call my colleagues back at the station and I don't think they'll be as easy to deal with.”

One of them scoffs and steps forward. Fuck, did he catch onto her lie? Her breath hitches and she can feel her shaky fingers clawing the seat in front of her, but then the lanky guy speaks up again, effectively stopping his buddy.  
“Yeah, whatever.” He motions for his friends to follow him. “If that thing tries anything I'll be the one calling your colleagues.”

He sits down, narrowing his eyes at her and then at the android, but miraculously, they leave them alone.

Threatening to involve the police always works wonders.

The dancer tries to get comfortable in her seat, closing her hands together so tightly her knuckles become as white as snow.

The bus can't reach her station early enough. She leaps out as soon as the door opens, waits for RK900 to exit as well and, still too nervous at having the three guys stare holes in them, grabs the android's wrist, urging him to walk quicker.

“I'm so sorry.” She breathes out once the vehicle is out of sight. “I didn't think this would happen... We never met anyone before.”

RK900 does not look affected at all.

“Your heart is beating approximately 140 beats per minute, your hands are sweating, your grip on my wrist is tense and your breath is shallow. You need to calm down before it escalates into a panic attack.”

She forgot she was still holding onto him for dear life. She jerks away from him, takes a few deep breaths, curses and starts walking towards the apartment complex, the android right behind her.

Her hands are still too shaky too open the door to the main entrance. She misses the keyhole twice and almost jumps when the android's gentle but steady hand envelopes her own, guiding the key inside the lock.

A weak _thanks_ is all she can manage to stutter. She leans against the heavy door but hesitates to enter.

“How are you going back to the precinct?” She glues her gaze to the tip of her boots, moving her weight from one foot to the other.

“I already calculated a route which should be sporadically crowded at best. By foot it should take approximately 40 minutes to arrive.”

“Isn't there another bus you can take?”

“I cannot take that risk.”

The dancer breathes out a tired sight, turning to face the android.

“I'm so sorry. You- My gosh, I can't imagine what Cyberlife will say when they see this.”

The android doesn't respond right away. He takes his sweet time observing her, probably taking her reaction in, studying it or filing it in some social folder.

“Strictly speaking, Cyberlife never prohibited me to leave the premises of the station with a handler.”

She manages a half smile. “Thank you.” Opening the door, she glances back one more time. “Take care, yeah? I'll see you tomorrow at work.”

“I have one last question.”

The words take her by surprise just like the first time when he talked about the Oreos by himself. She stops in her tracks and nods for him to go on, meeting his eyes for the first time since exiting the vehicle.

RK900's LED blips yellow for a split second. “What did you want to ask before, in the bus?”

“In the..? Oh, it was a stupid question.” She looks sheepish now, almost embarrassed. “I was just wondering if it would interest you to visit a festival? In a total fictive way, of course.”

He tilts his head to the side, and for another brief moment, his LED swirls yellow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hola people I'm back from the dead and I hate this chapter like always
> 
> Additional edit because I forgot to write it the first time: the slips in pronouns from neutral to masculine are intentional, like they will be in future chapters as well


	11. Chapter 11

“Absolutely not.”

The dancer’s smile falters.

“Why not?” She hopes RK900 doesn’t notice the heat rising to her cheeks.

“Despite the massive destruction of androids following the events of November 2038, android laws are still active.” It clasps its hands behind its back. “As such, I’m not allowed to wear human clothes.”

The dancer crosses her arms, pressing the sweater and beanie to her chest. RK900’s social program informs it the expression on her face categorizes as ** >distressed. **

“I mean- I thought… You know, after those guys had such a strong reaction to you yesterday, maybe it would be better for you to pass as a human…”

“I am expendable. If something were to happen, I would just be replaced.” It observes her slender frame tense. RK900 tries to choose the best course of action to take away her distress. “Of course, if you fear for my integrity you could always order me to return to the precinct.”

“No!” Her head snaps up, eyes wide and ** >horrified. ** She opens her mouth to add something else, but the arrival of their bus stops her.

“Very well then.” RK900 does not wait further, taking long strides into the android compartment.

What it does not predict is the body bumping into its back as soon as it steps foot into the vehicle, pushing it further inside.

“What are you doing?” It does not mean to raise its voice. It also does not mean to glare daggers at the dancer, who is ignoring it as if nothing happened. The hem of her shocking pink skirt got stuck in the sliding door. She shifts the sweater and beanie to her left arm, grabbing the fabric with her right hand to try and pull it free. She gives up when she hears a dangerous ripping sound somewhere at her hip. She leaning against the glass instead.

“If you’re getting in trouble, I’m getting in trouble too.”

“This is hardly a solution.” The android hisses.

“Well… Too bad.” Her cheeks are even redder now. The android knows she is embarrassed - she shows it in the way she avoids eye contact, in the way she makes herself smaller and tenses up as soon as she feels it talking in a displeased tone. Then why is she being so… Stubborn?

“Perhaps you should be reminded that I’m not a friend you need to protect, even if spending so much time together might make you think otherwise.” A change in tactic could make her understand better. “Cyberlife does not condone any kind of relationship outside of a professional one.”

Her eyes immediately fill with what his program interprets as ** >concern** and ** >hurt**.

“What about my safety?” She blurts out. “Maybe you’re not my friend, but I need to go grocery shopping and the nearest convenience store still open is in the middle of the festival.

If people see you dressed…” She points to the identifiers on its jacket. “…Like this, they could get aggressive with me too, just like yesterday.”

RK900 stays silent. It stares for one, three, six second. It stares until the dancer’s face is red as a tulip. It stares even when it starts its preconstruction program to aid him in finding the most suitable solution. Dozens and dozens of outcomes pile up onto each other, leaving the android with what its social suite warns is too close to actual human ** >frustration**.

Two stations later, they're sitting somewhere in the middle of the empty human section, the android donning the beanie and sweatshirt while the dancer shows off a smug, face-splitting grin. RK900 does not possess a fashion taste, of course, but it can’t help noticing how the deep navy shade of the sweater does not go well with the maroon one of the beanie - _according to the contemporary American fashion standards, of course_. The dancer herself has a… peculiar taste in clothes at best, so her choices of colors does not come as a surprise.

She is still busy stuffing the android’s jacket in her Prussian blue backpack (again, a fascinating match to her shocking pink skirt) when RK900 toys with the idea of deleting the bus’s footage. There are approximately four minutes and thirteen seconds of them discussing in the android section, before changing to the human compartment. It would be fairly easy to delete those minutes, and what difference would it make if it breaks another law now?

“You look just like a human.” The dancer nods approvingly, closing the zip of her bag.

RK900 halts its train of thoughts. Its reflection in the bus’s window tells it that, with the covered LED, it indeed gives off the impression of a human man, perhaps dressed too lightly for̷̰̾ ̸̨̢̭̖̐̿͠͝t̶̘͌̉̀ḣ̵͍̪̭͆͝ē̷̪̙ ̴̡̥̱̂̎͘s̷͐͜ȩ̶͕̣̬͝a̷̯̪͙͂ṡ̸̹̪͙͑̚ͅó̶͔̟̭̘͒̔n̷̰͙̞̔͛-

Black beanie. Dark gray sweater. Leather jacket. The android looking back at it from the window is so like RK900, yet so different – but what? What makes it different? Is it the softer features, the slightly slenderer form, the b̸̤̽̋̚r̴͕̤͕͐o̵̧̹̫͠ẅ̸̙̻̤́n̴̛͚̦̗͎̈́͠ ̵̙̮̱̬̈́͂e̷̼̅͂̈́y̶͚̰̻̆e̸̘̙̊͌͑s̶̡̾?

“Is everything alright?”

RK900 blinks. Blue optical units blink back at it from the window. It diverts its attention to the dancer, whose brows are scrunched in a worried frown. “You seemed gone for a second there.”

“I cannot be 'gone'. All systems are perfectly functional.”

“Whatever you say.”

Eager to get away from that corrupted memory, RK900 pushes past all the red warnings in its HUD to locate the camera's network. It deletes the footage of them entering and exiting the android compartment, then classifies the memories as non-relevant in hopes that Cyberlife will overlook its little adventure beyond the rules.

It doesn't make eye contact with the dancer for the rest of the ride.

_____

The dancer used to really like Hart Plaza.

She visited the place quite often before the revolution. Before the downfall of her dancing career.

The wide, spacious city plaza was a breath of fresh air for her thoughts. She could make them run freely and she knew the place would keep her secrets. It always did.

Then she was forced to start another career. She quit visiting her beloved plaza for a while, and when she came back, it was not the safe haven she remembered. She suddenly feared her thoughts running rampant through the huge, gray space, and the lack of people laid a veil of loneliness over her she never managed to lift since.

And when the military build those camps in November, well... She knew that place would never be the same again, at least not for her. She never went back there.

And now, here she is.

Hart Plaza is beautiful. Fairy lights and colorful lamps give a warm hue to the atmosphere. Heavenly smells waft through the air, competing to be noticed. Delighted chatter fills the place to the brim. And are those drums in the background?

Without much thinking, she grabs RK900’s arm.

“Do you hear the music? They’re performing a lion dance somewhere! At this hour!”

“A few drums concocting a rhythm barely qualifies as music.”

It’s as if the dancer never heard it.

“Can we go watch it?”

Big, pleading eyes meet cold, curious ones. The android’s lips twitch upward in sync with its eyebrows, and that wakes the dancer up from her rush of excitement.

She lets its arm go, clears her throat and straightens her back, clearly struggling to regain some form of dignity.

“How long can you miss from the station? Is there work you need to attend to?” She tries hard to ignore RK900’s piercing orbs.

“I do.” It answers without breaking its stare. “I’m using 32% of my CPU power to complete several reports and other minor tasks.”

“So… you’re multitasking?”

“Correct. I do not need to return anytime soon unless my presence is explicitly requested.”

Her dignity is forgotten yet again. Her face lights up and she give it a smile so huge she can feel the crinkles forming around her eyes.

“We have time for the lion dance then?”

“I… suppose we do.”

She doesn’t need to hear more. Sure the android will be right beside her, just like it always is outside of the precinct, she dives into the crowd. She zigzags between food stands, couples lovingly looking into each others eyes and friend groups with too much alcohol in their systems. Where is the music coming from? She’s about to take a left turn when she feels two hands grabbing her shoulders.

“The show is straight ahead.” She doesn’t expect RK900’s voice to be… so near. Her ear tingles from his artificial breathing. She only nods in response and shrugs its hands off her, afraid her voice will waver.

She doesn’t understand the itch spreading though her stomach, nor does she understand why the android’s touch leaves a scorching hot mark on her body but thank God she doesn’t need to. The drummers and dancers in dazzling costumes remind her what she’s here for.

The show is taking place right by the fountain, illuminated by its own purple light, a nice contrast to the yellow coat pf the lion the performers disappear under. They walk around the small stage and allow the people in the first row to pet the big lion head. The dancer laughs, joyful, outstretching a hand to touch the artificial fur.

RK900, right behind her, stands with its arms dutifully crossed, a small frown on its face.

“What are the benefits of dancing in such a fashion?”

She almost doesn't hear the question over the roaring drums.

“What exactly do you mean? For fun, I guess. And tradition.” The performers stop in front of the smallest poles, making the lion head bat its lashes between a swing and the other.

“I never saw Detroit going this big on Chinese New Year – well, new year technically already passed, but still...”

Her words get lost in the sea of colors, smells and people. They watch the lion dance for a while, the guys underneath hopping on higher and higher poles with impeccable balance. When the man in the front jumps in the air, supported only by his partner's arms, the audience explodes in a round of excited applause.

RK900 arches an eyebrow. The dancer can almost hear its system whirring and clicking, trying to make a sense of the show.

“So, humans engage in risky activities for the sole purpose of amusement?” It’s… endearing. With the festival lights warming his ( _its_ ) ice cold eyes like stars, he looks like a child discovering the wonders of the world, confused but eager to understand. Is it his (its, its, its) programming that makes him so curious?

“Humans do much more than that for amusement. You should see how I or any other ballerina gets thrown around in a pas de deux.” She nudges him softly, the breath of a laugh escaping her throat. “You didn't complain about risks when lifting me up.” The only answer she gets is a deadpan stare.

And in this moment, its childlike wonder disappears, turning RK900 in an 'it' again.

“Whatever.” She moves away from the crowd, fighting her way out of the festival without looking back. She crosses the street, follows a random sidewalk and stops at the next intersection, disorientated for a few seconds.

RK900, already deducing where she wants to go, calculates the best route to the nearest convenience store.

“Turn right into West Larned Street and after about 0,1 miles turn left into Woodward Avenue. Your destination will be on the right side.”

H – It did not just do that. She presses her lips together and really tries to hold her laughter back.

She fails miserably. And with that, the awkwardness from before is gone again.

“Did you just take the directions from Google Maps?”

“I have an integrated GPS system which gets updated regularly, but I'm afraid I do not possess an internet connection to use Google services.”

“Ok, Mr. Google Maps.”

They reach the store not even two minutes later.

The colorful fairy lights, the cheerful food stand and the loud chattering are substituted by cool, clinical-like lamps, neatly packed products and a calm, elevator-like tune. It's like entering a completely other dimension, a very boring one at that.

Armed with a shopping cart, the dancer strolls through the aisles. She tries not to act too self-conscious about the android hovering over her while she goes through the shopping list in her phone.

She's already thrown in an array of vegetables, fruits, as well as eggs and different kind of crackers before she notices something is wrong.

She scans the aisle with waves of panic slowly brooding in the pit of her stomach.

Oh no. Gavin will kill her.

She frantically pushes the shopping cart an aisle over. Nothing. Another one. Still no luck.

Where did RK900 go? She will not have to go to the checkout and make an announcement, right?

She opens her mouth to call it, but it's only in that moment she consciously remembers it doesn't have a name. She knows better than to call it by its model name or by one of Gavin's _lovely_ pet names.

She passes the dairy section, makes a turn through the bathroom essentials and finally, _finally_ finds the android in the candy section, standing completely motionless in front of the colorful shelves.

The dancer's first reaction is to be all fussy, asking it why it didn't stay with her and how near she was to having a heart attack, but the words die in her throat.

RK900 is stiff, the posture so still it almost looks like it shut down. Its eyes, though, tell a whole other story. They're full of starts again.

“Hey.” She gently places her hand on its arm, ignoring the fluttering of her heart as best as she can. “Is everything alright?”

She never had to wait so long for an answer.

“Systems are fully functional.”

“No. Are _you_ alright?”

“I'm afraid I do not understand.”

The dancer squeezes its arm once.

“It's okay.” Her lips twitch up for a moment and then she's pushing the cart again, RK900 right beside her. Its eyes are still glued to the products, blinking rapidly. It's almost like-  
“Is-” The dancer stops, waiting for the android to finish the sentence.

“Come again?” That insecurity in its voice is _not_ normal, is it?

“It's nothing of importance. I apologize for the disturbance.”

She nods, not sure what else to do. It's only after passing through two more aisles and throwing some cereal boxes in the cart that an idea starts forming in her head.

“I'm going on a limb and suppose you were never in a convenience store or on a festival before?”

No reaction.

“Are your sensors overloaded or something?” She tries again, carefully. “I can call Cyberlife and let them fix the issue.”

The effect of her words is immediate - and oh boy, that's one extremely offended face if she ever saw one.

“I already said I'm not compromised.”

“...Okay.”

They don't interact for the remainder of the trip.

The walk back to the bus station is a quiet one as well. The change in atmosphere is palpable when they pass beside Hart Plaza again: the show is a hotspot for the visitors of the festival, as opposed to the food stands on the sidewalks. The distant drums of the lion dance are still going strong. The dancer stops almost unconsciously, not ready to leave yet.  
“Can you spare one more moment? I would like to listen to the music just a little while longer.”

“Of course.” It doesn't comment on her incorrect definition. It stops right beside her instead, hands crossed over its chest, ever watchful eyes taking its surrounding in.

With the RK900 by her side, she feels the veil of loneliness lift just a little bit from her heart.

It feels good.

It shouldn't.

When the android offers to carry the shopping bag and its hand brushes against hers to take it, she should not feel that buzz of energy traveling from her fingertips to her stomach.

But she does.

And no matter how often she asks herself why she’s allowing herself to feel whatever it is she's feeling, she can't get herself to suppress it.

For the first time since knowing RK900, she doesn't want to.

**[Stress Level: 33%^^]**

After another deviant sighting and investigation, after killing two aggressive androids and watching three other self-destruct, RK900 is back at the station with a glitching arm, error messages flooding its HUD and memory files attempting to replay themselves again and again.

It already took care of the damage to its shoulder as best as it could, cleaning the broken plastimetal as well as pinching the thirium channels shut. It should be enough to prevent slowing its system down for at least another few hours. It was not difficult convincing Detective Reed its reparation could wait until the dancer would start her shift to document the damage and call Cyberlife.

If it's less paperwork for him, the human does not care. He's passing his time scrolling through his phone, _catching up on that break,_ as he had put it, and leaving RK900 to work on its own for now.

The android needs to focus. It engages a fraction of its processor power to manually close the memory files every time they attempt to take over its HUD. It dismisses the stress indicator and all the warning signs with a bit more effort next, until its vision clears enough to see the different case files spread over the table.

The android grabs the stack of fake IDs collected from all the deviant cases they were ever assigned to. It lays them out in neat lines, grouping them by date and case, from the oldest to the newest.

It needs to focus.

_The four adult deviants scramble to their feet. One scoops up the screaming child model holding onto her leg before taking refuge somewhere deeper in the abandoned building.  
The deviant staying behind is the biggest of the group. He's an older model, 6'2' tall with a sturdy frame meant for heavy construction work._

The android blinks. The IDs in his hands are from this morning's stakeout: the profile pictures portray a TR400, HR400, WR400, BL100 and YK500, respectively.

RK900 scans every document with meticulous attention, comparing them to the ones confiscated on previous investigations.

RK900 takes out one specific file from the pile. A photo of an AP400 and WR600 hugging each other in one of the precinct's cells, a thirium blue halo on the wall behind them, wanders over to the photos of their newest case.

RK900 avoids looking at the photo of the child with the broken neck.

“Detective Reed, you might want to look at this.”

_The TR400 manages to hit RK900's shoulder with the metal beam. It does not hurt, but the stream of messages overflooding its vision make it falter for a few precious seconds. It's not able to predict the kick to its head. It stumbles, tries to catch itself, but ultimately falls to the ground. Detective Reed curses once and unloads a round of bullets on their opponent. He will not be able to take the sturdy android down, but it's enough to make him lose his hold on the metal beam. When RK900's gyroscope recomposes itself enough for the android to stand up, it runs up to Detective Reed, grabbing the deviant's forgotten weapon off the floor and shoving the human out of the way. One more second and the TR400 could have seriously hurt Reed with his powerful fists. RK900 is the one absorbing the blow of his punch instead, but this time it's prepared. It takes one single step back, then plants the beam into the deviant's thirium pump._

Something is wrong.

RK900 builds another firewall around the memory files to keep them at bay. Maybe a diagnostic report might have some useful information to repair-

“What's up?” Detective Reed is still looking at his phone, uninterested. RK900 hesitates fur just a fraction of second too long. It brings two documents over, putting them directly in the human's face and ignoring the annoyed grunt it gets in response.

“I'm sorry, but I'll have to request your attention for a few moments. There are some interesting differences between the fake IDs.”

The detective finally puts his smartphone aside. Still irked from the android's attitude, he snatches the objects from its hands muttering something along the line of _fuckin' android_.

His frustration only grows when he looks down at the IDs.

“I ain't seeing to fucking difference, so you better explain what the hell you mean by that.”

_RK900 has managed to capture the HR400 in a rock-hard chokehold.  
The WR400 with short hair, modified to look black, begs for the life of her friend. RK900 knows better than to mistake her trembling hands and artificial tears for fear.  
Unlike its previous opponent, the HR400 is not constructed for strength. He's completely at its mercy, flailing around and failing to get free from the deadly hold.  
Detective Reed barks the command.  
The HR400's head snaps._

“...With the exception of two cases, every fake document we collected so far were produced in Jericho. But these-” it points to the IDs of the deviant group they hunted down that same morning, as well as the ones picturing the AP700, WR600 with their YK500, “are made from lower quality material. The text alignment is slightly shifted compared to the others, and the light of the identification photos is different as well.”

Detective Reed nods along, much more invested than before. He heads over to the table where files, photos and Ids are scattered over the whole surface.

“I noticed something quite odd here as well.” The android grabs the photo of the two dead androids in the cell and the ones collected at the crime scene that morning.

“The clothes. Thick winter jackets, large traveling backpacks, water-proof boots, ski gloves.”

“Fuckers looked ready for a long trip.”

“Exactly. Even androids risk to be damaged by low temperatures in the wrong context, especially if they're exposed to it for too long.” RK900 narrows its eyes, reflecting over its next words.

“I was able to extract a memory file from the BL100 before she self-destructed. It's not much, but it gives us the proof that there's someone out there helping deviants.”

_The WR400 as well as the YK500 self-destructed shortly after the HR400's death. Capturing the last deviant alive is of highest priority as of now, and fortunately, it does not look like a difficult task: the BL100 is curled up on the ground, no wish to fight whatsoever._

_Reconstructing the best way to approach her, RK900 leans down carefully, assuring her she will not die if she complies._

_It almost smirks in satisfaction when she allows it to grab her arm. It pulls her up. It can almost see the 'mission accomplished' banner sliding over its HUD when it notices a major complication._

_The BL100's nose is bleeding – and there is no external damage to explain the thirium leaking out of her system._

_No, no, no. It cannot happen now. Not after every other deviant died._

_In a frantic attempt to salvage something, anything, RK900 forces a connection to her system and starts to extract as many memory files as it can._

_It manages to transfer only a half-corrupted memory. The BL100 shuts down in its arms._

_It feels her die._

_I̶̙̳͖͓̿͂͑͘t̶̡̳͍̰̐̍̋ ̷̗̃͝ḟ̵͍̹ḙ̶̌̄e̵̻̾̏͝l̵̺͌̓s̵̬͒̽̑͝ ̸̺͛̀h̵̬͇͊͊̎ē̵̮-̴̼̲̄̄̓_

RK900's system needs a moment to reorganize itself, delaying the transfer of the file to Detective Reed's tablet by just a moment. The video lasts only a few seconds, but the human watches it with the eyes of a hawk, hungry for even the smallest lead.

In there, the BL100 is looking at the YK500. An outstretched hand offers a fake ID, which the child model accepts with a murmured thank you. She gets rewarded with a pat on the head. While the BL100 gets down on the child's eye level to rub her shoulder and speak encouraging words to her, the hand comes back with another fake ID. Then the memory glitches and fades into darkness.

“Fuck!” Detective Reed slams the tablet on the table.

“The only fucking piece of useful evidence we have, and of fucking course you can't see who the little shit is.”

RK900, who is not able to lose its cool like its human partner, takes the tablet and analyzes the footage again.

“It seems to be a female android.” It zooms onto her dark-skinned fingers. “It's difficult to differentiate the standard sized models from one another, but I could narrow the search down to the most probable ones by her skin color.”

“What are you waiting for, do you need an invitation? Fucking do it!” Detective Reed snatches his jacket from where he left it on the seat. “I'm done for today. You bitch better have the results ready by Monday.”

“Of course, detective.” And with that, RK900 is left alone.

While another part of his processor power is busy defining the best criteria to narrow down the model search, the android reorganizes the files on the table. The IDs get stacked in neat piles. All the papers go back to their respective binders. The photos are the last ones it grabs: the five death androids from this morning disappear in their case file, and the deviants hugging each other in the precinct's cell join the photo of the child model-

"̷͈͕̮̇R̴͍̬͓̃͘K̶̤̯̥̳̋̍͠9̴̡͎̬̂̃̾ͅ0̷̧̭͖̺͋0̷̡̯̤̋,̵͕̻͒́̄̈́ ̶̨̭͚̊̏̃̇k̶͖̠͘͜i̴̩̪͕̓̿̽͝l̶̨̆͋l̵̫͈̮̘͊ ̵̡̡͈̏͛̋̕t̸̘̓̽h̷̜̞̏̋́a̵͔̓́t̵̡̖̠͔̿͛ ̴̪̳͙̐d̶̺̟͙͘e̴̪͉̟̒́̐͐v̵̞̓͑i̷̗͎̖͆̉ḁ̶̮͈̊̅͌̇ͅň̵͚̻͇̎̀ẗ̷͔͊͌!̷͇͚͎̱̕"̷̣̄

Maybe another firewall will help. It needs to-

_The WR400's eyes lose all vitality as soon as RK900 snaps her friend's neck. She stays on the ground, motionless, mouthing a silent 'why?' over and over again._

**[Stress Level: 67%^^]**  
It tries to blink away its stress levels.  
It can't.  
It can̸̡͚̣̮̓'̸̢͈͙̕t̴̮̩̆̍͌.̸͎̥̃͊͠.̸̦̼̆̏͑.̷̡͈̥͆͐ ̴͖̋̒

_The TR400 falls to the ground with a heavy thud. His face is twisted in a horrible expression of pain. That should not be possible, deviants don't feel pain._

**[Stress Level:75%^^]  
[Warning! System overheating. Immediate cooling measures needed. Contact your nearest Cyberlife facility.]**

_The WR400's eyes lose all vitality as soon as RK900 snaps her friend's neck. She stays on the ground, motionless, mouthing a silent 'why?' over and over again._

**[Stress Level: 83%^^]  
[Warning! System overheating. Immediate cooling measures needed. Contact your nearest Cyberlife facility.]**

_The child is looking up at RK900 with big, tearful eyes, its arm twisted at an odd angle from the pistol's recoil. RK900 does not care. It can't allow itself to care. It's just a machine. It needs to follow its orders._

**[Stress Level: 90%^^]  
[Warning! System overheating. Immediate cooling measures needed. Contact your nearest Cyberlife facility.]**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You will not believe your eyes,  
> it's a new chapter!
> 
> Also, why do I have to think of Edward from Twilight with that weird stare of his when RK900 looks at someone HAHAHA


End file.
